The Elder Scrolls: Great War
by shivj80
Summary: Ulfric. Tullius. Delphine. Titus. These are their stories, their triumphs, their hardships, and their defeats during the darkest days of the Third Empire. The Aldmeri Dominion has invaded Cyrodiil, leaving death and destruction in their wake. Only the Imperial Legion stands in the way to protect what is left, but can they do so before they lose their sanity, or even their lives?
1. Prologue: A Gift for the Emperor

**The Great War has always intrigued me, and it was one of the pieces of lore I was most disappointed not to be able to explore in any of the Elder Scrolls titles. All we know about it is vague book entries and dialogues, which I think vastly downplays the importance that the four-year war had on the events of Skyrim. Some of the game's most important characters, like Ulfric, Tullius, Delphine, and the Emperor himself were involved in the conflict, and it created the strife that caused Skyrim's Civil War.**

 **So I wanted to at least attempt to do the Great War justice in the form of a narrative rather than a history textbook, by offering perspectives from different characters to create a story with multiple viewpoints. In this prologue, taking place two years before the meat of the action, I have obviously used much artistic license, but the basic plot is taken straight from the in-game book "The Great War." I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 **Prologue: A Gift for the Emperor**

 _30th of Frostfall, 4E 171_

Ancano wished he could just go back home.

It was not the weather that made him want to do so. Even though it was the wintertime in the northern provinces, it never became very cold in the Nibenay Valley. Though a cool breeze was sweeping over Cyrodiil that day, it was nothing out of control.

It was not the large crate either; even though it was inconveniently set up right in the middle of the carriage that Ancano was within, forcing him to squeeze into a corner, he had gradually become used to the seating arrangement over the weeks of his journey. After all, this massive, rather putrid-smelling crate was the reason the Altmer had even come on this trek: it was their gift for the Emperor himself.

"Gods, these disgusting Imperials," Ancano sneered, revealing what bothered him so much.

He almost could not bear to even look at the beggars dressed in rags and covered in warts, pitifully wailing for money to any passerby. Even though Ancano was within the protective covers of the carriage, so he did not have to think about coming into contact the poor, the view of those horrible human faces disturbed him to no end.

"This is a horrible sign," the High Elf muttered under his breath.

" _Qa, ame?"_ His companion, Arien, asked from the front of the carriage, with a quizzical look on his face.

Ancano did not want to talk to his driver. In fact, he didn't even like Arien that much. With his annoying voice and his constant chatter about useless things, he had become aggressively more irritating as time went on. But Arien was very good with the horses, so the mission unfortunately required him.

"We haven't even crossed the Talos Bridge yet, and I'm already despising this cesspool," Ancano exclaimed. "One would think the soldiers have enough sense to keep the beggars in the city slums, but instead they let the poor shits run around the towns and harass everyone for septims."

Arien nodded along, acting like he was listening to another one of Ancano's pedantic tirades, but in reality he was marveling at the sight unfolding right in front of the carriage. Turning the corner around a large cottage, Arien could finally see what he had wanted to see for so long: the White-Gold Tower, glistening in the sunlight, just a mile away.

* * *

After a few minutes, the Altmer reached the outskirts of the Imperial City. But they had not even accomplished their final objective yet, and the tension was already palpable within the carriage; though Ancano would never admit it, he was certainly nervous. He wasn't even sure why an amateur like him was on this mission, given its importance.

"But I'm just an apprentice mage," Ancano said to the elders after they gave him the scroll of details, assigning him on a mission with Grand Orator Nartea himself.

"Ah, but you are a mage gifted in the art of speech and rhetoric," the eldest of the elders would say, in their typical patronizing tones. "One of our best and brightest students." Apparently they believed in him.

"Imagine that!" Ancano proudly said to himself. A dirty orphan from the lowest caste, picked off of the streets and raised to be an upstanding citizen, was now delivering a message to the leader of the Empire of Men himself.

But there was no time to dwell on such daydreams, as Nartea awoke from his afternoon nap, sitting directly opposite from Ancano and quite infuriated that he let himself sleep for so long a time (hardly behavior fit for one of the most respected Mer on the continent).

"Arnaco!" the two-hundred year-old elf shouted with the power of a young man. Ancano hated it when the geezer messed up his name, but there wasn't much he could do about it; Nartea was one of the most powerful men in the Dominion, after all, and keeping a good relationship with him was critical.

"We've almost reached the Talos Bridge! Get out the papers, and make sure not to show the guards the treaty!"

"Of course, master," the mage said with a sigh, as he pulled out the document with the elegant seal of the golden eagle, with the words _Naarifin, Supreme Lord of the Aldmeri Dominion_ emblazoned around the seal.

Then, right in front, Ancano saw the might of Men: the massive Talos Bridge, stretched out in front of him and the comparatively puny caravan. The great marble construct was at least fifty feet wide and three hundred feet long, with hundreds of people of all races scurrying across, and at least a dozen caravans going back and forth from the City gate.

"I'm almost envious of the Imperials!" Arien exclaimed in his all-too-positive voice, clearly infatuated with the marvelous architecture of this gigantic metropolis.

"I hope you know that this damn town was created by Mer!" Ancano exclaimed, clearly fed up with such ignorance; Arien had a worrying amount of belief in the ability of Men.

* * *

Getting through the city gates was far easier than Ancano had expected. Apart from sharp glares from the Nord city guards ( _O_ _x-fuckers and Talos lovers,_ the elves would call them), they made it straight into the bustling Market District. The glares did not stop at the gate, however; hundreds of eyes seemed to stare straight into the young mage's soul, hating him, despising him and his race and his country. The Empire and the Dominion's relations had been tense for a while now, and nowhere did Ancano notice this fact more sharply than on the streets of the City.

He was also pretty sure that he saw a Bosmer shopkeeper make an obscene gesture ( _barbaric_ _cannibal heathen),_ but Ancano tried to forget these things, tried to forget the stupid idiotic peasants and low-lifes that he would never see again. And in doing so, the time in the City went by like a breeze, as the carriage found itself outside the Imperial Palace in an instant. The elves were greeted cordially by well-dressed servants, and led into the building's interior.

The Palace itself was just as magnificent as Arien had expected, and even Ancano had to begrudgingly acknowledge its beauty. Adorned with massive tapestries of ancient emperors and heroes, stained-glass windows of the Divines in all Their glory, and the most expensive rugs of Hammerfell, the throne room was one to envy. And right in the center was the Ruby Throne, the center of Cyrodiil, the center of the Empire itself.

And even though the stewards had protested at first, the elves were allowed to bring their carriage into the throne room, despite its putrid odor; Ancano insisted that the gift be handed over directly.

Many people had started to shuffle into the room at this point, a variety of servants, soldiers, and councilmen, but there was of course one person conveniently missing. The elves began to become restless, wondering if this was all some sort of cruel joke. But then, one of the stewards spoke the fateful words:

"I now present Titus Mede II, sovereign of the Nibenay Valley, most Holy Envoy of the NineDivines, and supreme leader of the Third Empire of Men!"

And so the Emperor entered the throne room, flanked on both sides by bodyguards of the legendary Blades Order, dressed in their traditional Akaviri armor.

Ancano appeared composed in the sight of the grand entrance, but on the inside, he was fiercely intimidated. Not because the Emperor was a terribly intimidating man, however; his massive regal coat, ornately decorated and bordered by giant tufts of fur, made him seem like he was overcompensating for something that was missing. His thick black beard almost made him look like a common blacksmith, hardly someone worthy of such respect. But the intensity of his gaze, and the way in which he walked into the throne room so confidently made Ancano's hair stand up on its end.

For a man who had only been emperor for three years, he seemed to have the game all figured out.

"Ah, you must be the Aldmeri entourage! And do I have the honor of meeting the Grand Orator Nartea?" The Emperor said in a booming, but oddly genial tone, accepting a humble bow from the old elf. "Now, I assume you are here to suggest certain….arrangements with our nation, yes?" He asked, his tone immediately changing to a more serious, almost annoyed one.

The Emperor was no fool, even if the local newspapers sometimes called him so. He understood the Thalmor's desire for the Empire's land, for Hammerfell's gold mines and its spices. He knew their penchant for vengeance, their wish to get back at the kingdom of Men for all the wrongs that the Septims did to their nation six centuries ago. If there was any province that could hold a grudge for that long, it would certainly be the Summerset Isles.

So Titus was determined to make the Altmers' case as difficult as possible to present; rather than speaking to the elder and more distinguished elf Nartea, he stared straight into the eyes of the younger one. Ancano fell right into the Emperor's trap.

Or so it seemed at first.

Ancano still had his superb skill of rhetoric, after all. On the spot, he could come up with convincing arguments that even stumped the High Justiciars, and his sheer confidence rivaled that of Nartea in his younger years. In Ancano's case, vanity was a powerful asset.

"You would be correct, Your Majesty," the Altmer began. "The Aldmeri Dominion has a few proposals that it would like to submit to the Empire for approval. As you well know, our two nations have not been on such great terms in recent years, so we hope to be able to ease the chaos before it gets…. out of hand."

"Well, spit it out then!" The Emperor said, in a slightly more brash tone than before, showing his growing annoyance with the irrelevant niceties of the elves. "What exactly are your demands? And let us not call them anything else than demands!"

Ancano looked over to Nartea to know what to do next, but Nartea only made a slight nod, the meaning of which Ancano understood perfectly: stick to the plan.

"Our demands? Ah, well they are simple: First, the Dominion demands the complete disbandment of the organization known as the Blades, for their unlawful acts of espionage against our nation!"

The faces of the officials in the room grew uneasy, as they realized the terrible truth, that the Thalmor knew everything, about the secret missions, about the disruptions, perhaps even about the attempted assassinations. The Emperor went from accusatory to completely stone-faced. He no longer had the upper hand on the bargaining table.

"For the second item!" Nartea shouted, speaking his first words in the throne room, "the Dominion requests that the Empire abolish the worship of that man that some call a god, Tiber Septim. In the past, he committed great atrocities against the Altmer people and their homeland, and to call such a man divine is simply sacrilege!"

At these words, the Blade on Titus's left side, a bearded Nord deeply offended by Nartea's comments, began to step forward and almost drew his sword, but the Emperor put his arm up: Even with such blatant flaring of the fires by the High Elves, Titus knew that remaining diplomatic was critical. Such was the only way that conflict could be avoided.

"Third!" Ancano now spoke up again, "The Dominion demands that Empire give over at least forty percent of the lands in the province of Hammerfell, to allow for a fair sharing of resources, as the great amount of precious materials that the Redguards hoard is well-known to the rest of the world."

The Blade on Titus's right tilted his head back almost laughing, clearly scoffing at such a ridiculous proposition. The expression on the Emperor's face was becoming irritated again, as he came to the realization that this meeting was not a negotiation at all: it was a hoax.

"Oh, and we also propose some monetary tributes that the Empire will give to us as a sign of true cooperation between our nations. The details are in this document," Ancano stated as he handed a thick sheet of paper to the steward, who handed it to the Emperor. Upon reading the numbers upon the document, Titus's eyes widened in pure dumbfoundedness, and looked at his steward in disbelief.

"We do not accept your propositions," the Emperor stated very matter-of-factly, after just a few moments of reflection. "I am still not sure if you mean to seriously bother me with such asinine demands, but you are wasting your time. I would have expected more from the 'great' Nartea!"

"Ah, but Your Majesty, we still have this gift to give you!" Ancano explained with a smirk as he pointed towards the carriage behind the elves.

"Your cart? Yes, yes, show me what you have. I will let you know that gold will not change my stance, however."

Ancano motioned towards Arien, who had, up until this point, been standing behind the two speakers, meekly watching the drama unfold.

"Come here, help me turn over this thing!"

"Turn over, what do you mean?" Arien exclaimed, clearly very confused.

Ancano stared at Arien, wondering if he really was so stupid, but he then realized: the higher-ups had told him nothing about the plan. At least they recognized his untrustworthiness.

"Nevermind why, just do it!"

The two elves upended the carriage, and the large covered crate toppled out, its contents spilling out right in front of the Ruby Throne.

It was filled with heads.

Imperial heads, Nord heads, Breton heads, Dunmer heads, over fifty of them. Rotting, decaying in the throne room of the Empire.

The stewards recoiled in horror, and the rest of the assembly simply stared in both utter disgust and morbid curiosity.

"These!" Ancano explained, motioning his hands excitedly, "are the remains of the fifty-seven Blades agents that we found lurking and conniving within in our nation! What do you have to say, Your Majesty?"

At these words, the Nord Blade walked straight up to Ancano, picked him up like a child, and began to strangle him. Ancano was now absolutely terrified, for he could see the pure hatred in the man's eyes.

"Hakon!" Titus exclaimed, getting off of his throne. "Let go of him, at once!"

Shocked by the anger in the Emperor's voice, Hakon immediately put him down, and let Ancano gasp for air.

"Damn savage!" Ancano shouted, straining his throat even more, only to face Titus's glaring eyes.

"I will give you one hour to leave this city. One. Hour. If my guards find you after that time, they will make sure to execute you as quickly as possible." Titus's voice was now calm, but with a kind of dread attached to it.

"Then, I assume, Your Majesty, that this….is war?" Ancano inquired with a smirk, regaining his confidence.

"Yes, inform your High Council that the Empire declares war on the Aldmeri Dominion. We will show no mercy."

Ancano, Nartea, and a dumbfounded Arien, still in a state of shock about the horrible secret that he had been driving around all these weeks, were all brusquely escorted outside of the throne room. As they did so, Nartea gave his protégé an approving nod.

"You did well, my apprentice. They played perfectly into the plan, just as you predicted. You have truly made history here."

"Oh, you are too kind, master! The real history is just about to begin: Titus will wish he accepted the gift while he still had the chance."


	2. The Fateful Decision

**If you're enjoying the story so far, I would really appreciate it if you would follow/favorite the story and give a little review, the feedback really helps me out and encourages me to write more! The next chapter should be out in the next few days.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1: The Fateful Decision**

 _29th of Second Seed, 4E 173_

Ulfric woke up sharply from his sleep and immediately threw off his bed's thick fur blankets, only to realize that he wasn't in any danger at all.

"That damned dream again," the young Nord mumbled as he got up and lumbered into the main hall, if it could even be called a hall; High Hrothgar was a centuries-old castle with haphazard planning and narrow corridors, and the least narrow corridor happened to be where the hearth fire was lit. Considering that the temperature was eternally below freezing on the Throat of the World, the warm fireplace was one of Ulfric's few comforts on the harsh mountaintop.

He reached the hearth, and began to stare into the flames, hoping he could find an answer to his troubles in the crackles and sparks. His father had once said that fire was just one of the many gifts that Kyne gave to Man, and that, if one believed hard enough, one could see visions from the goddess herself, scenes from the past, even premonitions of the future. But Ulfric did not really believe in such fables, and so he saw nothing.

"Looking at the fire again?" Arngeir asked, seeming to have materialized out of thin air right beside Ulfric.

"Master?!" The young Nord exclaimed, evidently startled by the Greybeard's silent footsteps. Even though Arngeir was the only one of the four monks that regularly spoke, he still had remarkable control over his bodily sounds, to the point that he could completely suppress his snoring while asleep.

"My apologies, master. I know you have told me to not think of the Divines in this space, but I was thinking about my father and…."

"Please, please, my apprentice, there's no reason to be sorry," the monk said in a grandfatherly tone, even though he could not be older than fifty. "There is nothing wrong with _thinking_ about Them, it is only that trying to ask for their blessings will distract you from learning the Way of the Voice. Now, let me guess, you're having a bad dream again."

"Aye," the pupil said with a sigh. "It's….nightmarish. I feel like Vaermina herself has consumed my thoughts."

"Describe it to me. Perhaps the Voice can figure out the root of this occurrence."

"I saw….bodies," Ulfric began to narrate with his eyes staring into space, clearly visualizing the horrible image. "Dead bodies, all across a field. The field was burning, scorching, desecrated. Men were fighting, all kinds of Men, but they just kept dying and dying. It felt eternal, never-ending."

Arngeir tried to put on a calm face, but in the back of his mind, he was deeply disturbed by his dear pupil's dreams. Perhaps the Daedra really had possessed Ulfric's thoughts, but the monk wasn't ready to jump to conclusions so easily.

"Well, this image of yours could perhaps be a glimpse of the future, which would be a good sign indeed!"

"What do you mean, master?" Ulfric asked, confused as to why Arngeir was trying to twist his nightmare into a good omen.

"To begin to be able to peer through time is to begin to show mastery over the Voice. You see, the dragons, the originators of our power, are the children of Akatosh, Time Himself. The most powerful of _dovah_ could peer into innumerable futures. So this vision of yours, Ulfric, it means you have come very far in your training."

"But what makes you so sure it is a vision? At what point in the future could such bloodshed become reality?"

"To tell you the truth," Arngeir began hesitantly, "such bloodshed is already happening, right now."

"What? Where?"

"In Cyrodiil, Ulfric. The Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion are at war with each other. The Aldmeri troops have reached all the way to Bravil, and the coastal cities of Hammerfell."

"How….how could you know this?"

"You assume too little of me," the monk said with a chuckle. "I have had to make many early morning trips down to Ivarstead to obtain my herbology supplies from the generous farmers. While you were meditating with Masters Bersi and Wulfharth, the innkeeper down there was informing me of all the news."

"I know you _really_ went down to get alcohol, master," Ulfric mumbled sardonically, seeming to have recovered from his trauma of reliving the dream. "But how could you keep this information from me?! Is Skyrim safe? Has it been attacked?"

"No, no, not at all. In fact, the Emperor hasn't even called for troops from Skyrim since the war started two years ago."

" _Two years?"_ Ulfric thought, incredulous on how much time had passed in Hrothgar, while he was completely unaware of what was going on down below. Over the months, the young Nord had gradually become used to the isolation and peace that the Greybeards provided him, but now, the full feeling of loss hit him straight in the heart. His city. His father. His friends. They had all been living out their lives, while he had been frozen in time.

"Does that surprise you?" Arngeir asked, aware of the bewildered expression on Ulfric's face. "I suppose time really does feel static on this mountain."

"But master, I don't understand, if the Empire is being directly invaded, why would the Emperor not call for Skyrim's aid?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps he is concerned of the loyalty of the Nords to the Crown."

" _Loyalty? The Imperials question our loyalty?"_ Ulfric thought, deeply offended that such an assertion could even be made. He had seen himself as a citizen of the Empire ever since he was a child; Ulfric was always the one most eager to learn the Cyrodilic language, and was the first to argue against any insurrectionist talk that his friends would stir up. If there was one thing Ulfric knew better than being proud his Nord heritage, it was understanding that the unity of Men was in the best interest of Man.

With these revelations of war, a kind of patriotic fervor awoke within the young Nord, as he was now determined to prove himself to both Titus Mede and the world.

"But anyway, my apprentice, we should not dwell on such otherworldly things. Since you're up earlier than usual, why don't we practice _Whirlwind_ in the courtyard? Your control was improving, but you must focus on specifying direction as well."

"Yes, of course, master," Ulfric said with a smile. Deep down, however, the recent news would bother him for the rest of the day.

* * *

Ulfric was not entirely sure why he was even chosen to be a Greybeard. He certainly did not seem to have any personality traits that would make him predisposed for a life of solitude and meditation: he was hot-headed and impulsive, always the first to jump into the fray. Perhaps he had become more reflective and passive during his stays at High Hrothgar, but he doubted his father would let Arngeir keep the prince of Windhelm at a monastery for the rest of his life. When Hoag Stormcloak agreed to let his son study with the Greybeards, he assumed it would not be a permanent endeavor: Ulfric would live at Hrothgar for a few months and then come and stay back in Windhelm for a few more months. But now, the young Nord was worried that Arngeir and the other monks did not intend on letting him go.

Ulfric had now been on the mountain for two years, the longest he had ever stayed in a single period. Even though he had mastered multiple Shouts, the mystical powers of the dragon tongue, he still never felt like he could live the life of a Greybeard forever. Ulfric was restless, searching for a true purpose in his life, one that was fulfilling and exciting. Hrothgar offered neither of these things.

Such were the things Ulfric was ruminating upon in his bedroom, when he decided that the first step was to go down the Throat, just down to Ivarstead, and interact with other human beings again.

"Master, it will only be for an hour or so. I shall be back before sundown!" Ulfric said desperately, running up to Arngeir at the monastery's meeting table.

"Hm, it seems that it was a mistake to tell you about my adventures, since I seem to have inspired you to leave Hrothgar as well," Arngeir thought out loud. "Very well, you may go, but remember: you may not use the Voice for _any_ purpose. It is not a power to be used in the mortal world."

With these ominous words, Ulfric went out into the snow and began the trek down the Seven Thousand Steps. Since it was the beginning of summer, the winds were quiet, and the chill was barely a breeze, but it was still no easy feat to go down the slippery and decrepit steps. Ulfric could have sworn that he was about to be ambushed by a frost troll, but instead he just saw scores of pilgrims. Some were silently praying at the stone monuments interspersed along the mountain trail. Others were solemnly meditating, breathing in the alpine air. But none of them seemed interested in the red-haired Nord that was coming straight from High Hrothgar; considering that no one was allowed to enter the it, Ulfric thought that at least someone would notice that he came out of the building, but the pilgrims were too preoccupied with their own journeys of self-discovery to take heed. And so the trek went by uneventfully.

As Ulfric descended into the sleepy village of Ivarstead, he noticed that he was getting strange looks from the townspeople. The girls working in the potato fields seemed fixated on the young Nord, but they quickly turned away as they noticed Ulfric staring straight at them. He imagined that this interest in him stemmed from his semi-celebrity status: a Jarl's son, studying with the Graybeards themselves. Unlike the pilgrims, the people of Ivarstead remembered him from his visits in the past.

His bright red hair also made him stand out from the crowd; the Stormcloaks were one of the few families in the entire province to hold the unique trait, which could also be a danger in areas that still held the belief that red hair was a sign of Daedra worship. But Ulfric largely ignored the curious gazes, and waltzed into the Heimskr Inn; He hadn't had alcohol in two years, so he was prepared to indulge, if only a little.

"And so, Ulfric Stormcloak has come down the mountain!" The ancient innkeeper, Bjorn, exclaimed as Ulfric walked towards the bar area, with the eyes of onlookers still following him.

"I'm surprised you remember my name!" The young Nord said with a smile as he sat down on a stool next to the bar, a little disturbed about how the innkeeper actually did remember Ulfric's name.

"Well, I'm sure most of the townspeople at least remember your face, though you having a beard now doesn't help with recognition."

Ulfric nodded along, only just then realizing how thick and unkempt his mass of facial hair had become, and how greasy and dirty his old navy robes must seem to passerby.

"But the townsfolk, they talk about you, you know, to the pilgrims that come around, especially those from Eastmarch. They're always amazed when they find out that their Jarl's son is studying at such an….advanced institution."

"You mean to imply that you believe that all I've been doing up there is meditating for two years, don't you?" Ulfric stated, half-accusingly and half-jokingly.

"No, of course not!" Bjorn exclaimed, almost sounding offended. "We all know what the Voice is, you know. It is a great honor to even be able to meet the Greybeards, much less learn from their vast knowledge."

"Aye, of course. Now, what's been going on in Skyrim for the past two years?"

The innkeeper raised his eyebrows, startled that someone would ask such a naïve question. "Well, do you want the short story or the long?"

"I'm in a rush. Give me the summary."

"Well, we've been in the War since maybe right after you went up that mountain, but the Emperor hadn't called in troops from here until just a few weeks ago. Some bullshit about our loyalty stopped old Titus from doing it until now."

"Wait, troops have been called from Skyrim?!" Ulfric exclaimed, incredulous at both this revelation and Arngeir's misinformation.

"Well, didn't you notice how the fields are all being worked by the girls? More than half the men left, they're probably at Bruma by now."

It was here that Ulfric had to make his fateful decision, one that would decide the course of his entire life. Would he stay with the Greybeards, and lead a solemn life of study and meditation about the meaning of life? Or would he join the armies of Cyrodiil, fight back the foreign threat, and return to Skyrim and claim his birthright as Jarl of Eastmarch?

For a young man like Ulfric, the path of duty, and glory, was the obvious choice.

"How can I sign up?" He asked enthusiastically, getting up from his stool.

"Well, most of the boys went to catch the Legion carts at Riften, but I'm sure you could go to any of the cities and find recruiters….but hey, you think the monks would let ya go off to war?"

"Oh, never mind that, I'll talk with them, they're sure to understand," Ulfric said rapidly as he began to walk towards the door, wanting to discuss with Arngeir immediately. "Many thanks for the information, Bjorn."

"Hey, you just got here! You know you want a drink…." the innkeeper trailed off as Ulfric ran out of the store. "Gods, why are young men so eager to go off and get themselves killed?"

* * *

"I must fight in this war!" Ulfric pleaded to a focused Arngeir, reading in his study. It had been a day since Ulfric's journey down to Ivarstead, and by now, the young Nord had already packed up what few possessions he still had and was ready to descend once again.

"It seems the prophecy was true," the monk said with a sigh. "Though I admit I may have hastened its arrival."

"Prophecy? What do you mean?"

"You remember Paarthurnax, yes?"

"Well, I remember you saying that I would eventually meet this 'Lord of the Greybeards' when I became advanced enough."

"I went up to see him a few months ago, right on the very peak of the Throat. You see, he receives visions, clearer than any man I've seen that has claimed to be a prophet. He had a vision of you many years ago, Ulfric, that you would train under us, that you might become one of us. But last I visited him, he told me that you would diverge from the path of a Greybeard, and go seeking a life in the mortal world."

The young Nord marveled at the accuracy of the predictions of this Paarthurnax, as well as wondering how any sentient being, man or mer, could survive at the peak of the Throat of the World. Perhaps he truly was the strongest magician in the world.

"Anyway, what I'm trying to say, Ulfric, is that I will not stop you from leaving because I cannot. Fate has foretold it, and there is no way of changing it," Arngeir said with a smile, but one of sadness and regret.

"Thank you, Master, for all you have taught me," Ulfric said with a pang of regret as well, bowing deeply in an almost bashful way.

"Oh please, Ulfric, what have I done in my life? I was a drunkard, a beggar, a complete mess before Master Wulfharth found me. And even though I have lived here for so long, I have never truly immersed myself in my work as my colleagues have. Like you, I was never able to give up on the world below. That's why I still talk in the mortal tongue while the other Greybeards dedicate themselves to the _dovahzul._

"I'd say you've done a damn good job of convincing people that you're a serious monk," Ulfric said with a smile.

"Ha, I suppose that's all that matters, isn't it? Very well then, don't let me keep you! You have a carriage to catch, and Windhelm is quite the day's journey away. Make sure to tell Einhart to give you some of the spare food. Oh, and make sure to say goodbye to Wulfharth and Bersi and old Jorgen, you know how sad they will be about your departure. And, oh, of course, make sure you buy some sturdier clothes, those robes will not suit you for your journey ahead."

"Yes, yes," Ulfric said, waving off the monk's fretting. "You worry too much, Master."

"One final thing. As you are no longer our apprentice, there is no reason for you to call us 'master.' You are your own man now."

"Very well, Arngeir."

* * *

In a way, Ulfric saw himself reflected in Arngeir, as if a single life decision separated their distant paths. Like the young Nord, the old monk was dedicated to his philosophy, but not so much so that he had to completely give up the mortal ways; he still spoke regular words, after all.

But the Greybeards were in the past, and now, Ulfric had set off on what was perhaps the most dangerous journey of his life. It would be one of camaraderie, of success, of defeat, of peril, and of triumph. Coming out of the experience, the young Nord would be forever changed, hardened and traumatized by the chaos of war.

But in 4E 173, Ulfric could not possibly imagine what was in store.


	3. The Cloud Ruler's Trial

**As you read, I encourage you to pay attention to the dates at the beginning of each chapter, as they provide important information on the time relationships between each of the characters. I hope you enjoy my introduction to Delphine, and I also hope that I'll be able to get the next chapter out sooner than the last one!**

* * *

 **Chapter 2: The Cloud Ruler's Trial**

 _30th of Second Seed, 4E 173_

As she climbed up the steps of Cloud Ruler Temple, Delphine's emotions were a mix of minor fear and sheer confusion.

Although she had a general idea of why she had to come to the freezing landscape of the Jerall Mountains, she had no idea what awaited her within the halls of the Blades's secretive and legendary lair; Also, she was still in amazement that a place in Cyrodiil could somehow be colder than her hometown in Skyrim.

"You're not looking too good there, my lady," her companion Julius said, full of energy and somehow not the slightest bit tired from the trek, despite his advanced age.

"Please stop calling me that," Delphine said with a sigh. "My father was a blacksmith, my mother is an alchemist, and I've never worn a dress in my entire life. I'm about as far from a lady as you could get."

"Ah, but being a lady does not require noble titles or expensive clothing. It's about your personality, your ability for empathy and compassion, which is something that many women lack. Besides, once you become part of the Blades, no one will give a single rat's ass what you were in your past life." Delphine could swear she saw the old Imperial's glass eye twinkle as he spoke.

"Well, you still haven't anything about this 'test' that the Blades will give me. Of course, I know I'll be interviewed, but no one seems to be able to give me a straight answer on what in Oblivion they're gonna make me do."

"That's the idea, my lady. The Blades do many things, so many things that it's hard to put a single finger on them. We like to keep secrets, and so our tests follow this philosophy. I assure you, Delphine, your skills will be put to good use." Julius made sure to put emphasis on the use of her name.

Delphine was about to make some half-witty remark, but she gasped as she gazed at what had appeared in front of her: a massive structure built on a plateau, surrounded by the snow-capped and glistening mountains. The walls of the compound were at least twenty feet tall, with the guardtowers covered by sloped roofs with thatches made to look almost like a wave. The young woman had never even seen such architecture before, not even in the avant-garde quarters of the Imperial City.

"Now _this_ is what we call the Akaviri style!" Julius exclaimed with a smile, always one to become excited over architecture. "Back during the Second Empire, all of Cyrodiil's cities were adorned with these _pagoda_ -shaped roofs. With so many Akaviri people going back and forth across the Padomaic Ocean, the cultural exchange was truly magnificent. And you know why they call this place a Temple? Well, it started with–"

"Spare me the history lesson, Julius," Delphine said, cutting off her companion's tangent. "This place is….amazing."

As the two walked up to the front gate, the guard on top seemed to immediately recognize the old Imperial. With a slight nod, he let Delphine and Julius into the complex, with no questions asked. Julius was a senior member of the Blades, after all, though he did not inform Delphine of the exact nature of his position.

As the two walked through the outdoors area, two men were engaged in a practice duel, but their deep focus made the fight appear to be one to the death: their sleek silver swords made almost musical notes as the blades slid across one another, attempting to dig into armor and flesh. The warriors' movements were graceful, with subtle twirls and gestures designed to throw the opponent off balance, but as both fighters were making the same moves, a kind of equilibrium settled in, so that neither was able to even graze the other.

"So that's what the Blades can do," Delphine commented, completely awestruck by the scene unfolding in front of her. "I never thought a fight could look...beautiful."

"Aye, my lady, that's the Blades can do! In a few months, that could be you, twirling your _katana_ around like a madman."

* * *

The interior of the Temple was very impressive, though considering that its Gothic style reminded Delphine of half the buildings in the Imperial City, it was not as unique as the façade. The ceilings were high and the windows were massive, giving the feel of a real cathedral. People of all races were running around the ground level, some carrying stacks of papers, others bundles of weapons. They were all wearing the same Akaviri armor in various stages of wear and undress. In the Blades, it was important that no one should stand out from one another, lest a particular person be identified by the enemy.

Julius led Delphine into the East Wing, a massive library filled with books on topics from the fighting styles of the Argonian Shadowscales to Redguard wedding ceremonies. The two walked up to a table where a small, unassuming old Breton was writing something down on a stack of parchment, clearly very focused on his work. He was dressed in flowing, monk-like robes, setting him apart from the others in the Temple, and his completely clean-shaven face suggested that he paid acute attention to detail.

Julius loudly cleared his throat, startling even those sitting on the other tables, and grabbing the attention of the man.

"Ah yes, you must be….Delphine Magnusson," he said, immediately noticing Delphine and intentionally ignoring Julius.

"And you must be the Grandmaster?" Delphine asked, trying to be as respectful as possible while also projecting a sly sense of doubt.

"I am impressed: most would not assume much of me, but yes, your guess would be correct: I am Orleans D'Yffre," he said with a small bow in the most authentic Breton accent possible. By his mannerisms and his precise pronunciation, Delphine thought that he must have been a nobleman of some sort.

"Now, young Delphine, I assume you must have a good idea about why you have been brought to Cloud Ruler Temple?" Orleans continued.

Delphine gave a glare towards Julius, before saying, "No, Grandmaster, my traveling companion has failed to give me any sort of relevant information."

"Captain Julius, I told you to stop being so esoteric with the new recruits!" Orleans exclaimed, showing a fiery side that the Delphine would not have expected at first glance.

"Sorry, it's just a force of habit," the old Imperial said with a smile, his wild white hair almost appearing golden in the dim candlelight.

"This is why I've been saying you need to retire," the Grandmaster said with a sigh. "Do you not have some _urgent_ business with the new recruits outside?" Orleans motioned, clearly wanting Julius to leave the immediate premises. He did so, giving a little wink to Delphine before he walked out of the East Wing.

"I apologize for your entourage: Julius is our oldest Blade, and as such, he feels as if he has free reign over everyone else."

Orleans began to go through his stack of parchment, before finding what was evidently a resumé of sorts. "Delphine, you have been brought here as a potential member of the Blades Order because you display a 'remarkable talent in the skills of one-handed weaponry and gathering of information.' According to your superiors in the Legion, your ability to quickly process and utilize battle techniques and tactics is unparalleled by your colleagues. Of course, you have not yet fought in a battle, but your display of skill in even the training is quite noteworthy."

"Ah, well I just try my best, Grandmaster," Delphine said modestly, though in her mind, she was relieved that someone finally recognized her innate talent, when none of her comrades in the Legion seemed to do so.

"I'm sure you do. Now, tell me a little bit about your childhood," Orleans asked, trying to gain a sense of the new recruit's personality and background before the final decision was made on the admittal.

Delphine was confused as to why the Grandmaster would be asking her a seemingly irrelevant question, but she answered it anyway. "Well, I grew up in Riverwood. It's a small village just a few hours outside of Whiterun. My father was from the village too, but one day when he was coming back from Falkreath, he came home with an Imperial woman, my mother. His family…."

"Didn't take on to the marriage too well, I'd imagine?" Orleans said wryly.

"That sounds about right. My uncles and grandparents were happy that I turned out looking so much like a Nord, but they and my mother never really got along. Around when I was maybe nine years old, Father became fed up with their antics, and moved the three of us to the Imperial City, to be closer to my maternal grandparents."

"And I assume they got along with your father?"

"Surprisingly, yes. I guess Imperials are just more tolerant than backcountry Nords."

"Ha, I would expect so. I'd also assume that it was your father that got you into fighting, no?"

"Of course," Delphine affirmed. "He was a blacksmith, so he would always let me try out the tiny daggers he made, and eventually even the axes and maces. My mother's sisters and my cousins tried to make me more 'ladylike,' but Father wouldn't let them turn me so easily."

To Orleans, it was clear that, despite her biracial nature, Delphine's Nordic side had blessed the young woman with an uncanny headstrong attitude for females in this part of the Empire.

"But, I'm curious, what made you join the Legion in the first place?" Orleans asked, continuing the conversation.

"Well, back in 171, the draft was put into effect, and many of my friends from around the City had to join…."

"Ah, but there is no draft requirement for women, is there?" Orleans interrupted. "So you willingly volunteered to become a soldier in the Legion, knowing that there was impending war?"

"Well, of course, Grandmaster. It's my duty as a citizen. I may be a Nord, but I've lived in Cyrodiil for almost half of my life, and I couldn't bear to see everyone else being thrown into conflict….at least that's what I was thinking when the War started, but they didn't even let women join at first."

"Ah yes, I forgot, the Emperor only allowed the volunteering of females in Sun's Dawn of this year. So even after two years of the Legion discriminating against your wishes, you still decided to go off to the training grounds?"

"There was no question about it," Delphine stated decisively. Now, Orleans could see the fire that burned within the young woman's heart.

"I see. Well, follow me, young Delphine. I have just one small task for you to do."

* * *

Turning down multiple agents who tried to approach him about 'urgent business,' Orleans led Delphine down a flight of stairs in the West Wing portion of the Grandmaster could only focus on one task at a time, and to him, testing this young lady was the most important one at the moment.

"You see, because of the War, no one is staying in Cloud Ruler for a long time. So our living quarters can be used for….ulterior purposes," Orleans said with a conniving smile.

As the two entered one of these quarters, Delphine realized what the Grandmaster had meant: an Altmer dressed in golden Elven armor, bound and gagged on a chair in the middle in what appeared to be a residential room. Right next to him, there was an aging Nord that seemed to be tending to the captive's wounds, or trying to cut him up further (she could not entirely tell).

"Delphine, I would like to introduce you to Esbern Oakheart, our Master Archivist," Orleans held out a hand, bringing the two strangers together.

"I see that your 'Master Archivist' is also a Master interrogantionist," Delphine commented.

"Ha, well, ever since the war, we've been on very short staff, so all of us have had to diversify our careers," Esbern began. "It's a pleasure to meet you." Even though the Nord could have been no older than 50, he was already almost completely bald, with an full black beard streaked with gray. There was just something about his demeanor, his cheerful tone, his positive radiance, that made Delphine instantly connect with him.

"But yes, here we have our...specimen for study," Esbern continued, going back to a scholarly, formal tone. He ripped the gag right of the Elf's mouth, though which he had been viciously screaming through for the past few hours. He started shouting curses, but they were unintelligible to Delphine and Esbern.

"He's whining in Altmeri," Orleans stepped forward. "And you two probably do not want to know what he's saying. Now, my elvish friend, do you speak Cyrodilic?"

Silence.

"Perhaps you cannot hear clearly, so let me ask again: Do. you. Speak. Cyrodilic?"

Silence again. The high elf's golden eyes blazed with hatred, and glared straight into the eyes of Orleans. Delphine began to become uncomfortable, having a sense of what was about to happen next.

"Now, I already know the answer to my question," Orleans said, his tone immediately becoming cold, almost terrifying Delphine. "Your Thalmor overlords would not send an elf this deep into enemy territory if they were not able to converse with the local populace. But clearly, you, young Altmer, seem so loyal to your cause that you will not even respond to such a simple question. Normally, I would have my Grand Archivist begin the information extraction." Orleans now looked back at Delphine and Esbern, both in great anticipation of what was to happen next.

"Delphine, come here," the Grandmaster motioned, and she stepped forward, realizing that her great trial, her ultimate test, had finally come. "I need you to make this elf tell you everything, and I mean everything. Dominion troop locations, the names of generals, the names of regular soldiers, even their food consumption. This is your chance to put that information gathering of yours to good use." Orleans smiled a sinister smile.

"But Grandmaster, I've never….tortured someone before," Delphine said meekly. "Besides, are the Illusion mages not the best people to do these kinds of tasks?"

"Are you backing down now, after all you've gone through to get here?" Orleans asked rhetorically, annoyed at Delphine's behavior. "If you know of any Illusion mages within a hundred miles, please inform me of them, as they are either dead or on the enemy's side."

"The Grandmaster has a point, Delphine," Esbern said. "You must accomplish this task."

Orleans revealed a dagger from the pocket of his robes, and handed it over to the young woman. Delphine knew what she had to do, but she was unsure if she had the ability to do it.

But she remembered the Grandmaster's words, how hard she worked, how much she toiled in her brutal training, how humiliated she was by the harassment of the male legionnaires. She remembered her father, how he encouraged his daughter to continue to fight with swords and shields, despite the protests from everyone else in Cyrodiil. She simply could not give up now, just because she was scared of inflicting pain on someone else. Delphine had hurt people before in duels, had she not? Besides, this young elf, who looked not much older than her, was part of the sworn enemy, who wished nothing more than her complete and utter annihilation.

So she took the dagger. "I'll give you one more chance," Delphine began. "I will not refrain from doing whatever I have to."

The silence continued, and all that could be heard was the Altmer's heavy, raspy breathing, his eyes continuing to stare right at his captors. Delphine got a clear look at his face now, and he could see that he was sweating profusely, and that there were patches of blood all over his face. Had Esbern already started the torture?

"You leave me no choice," Delphine whispered as she held the dagger, and sunk it into the back of the Altmer's bound hand.

The young elf wailed a terrible wail as his fingers pulsed uncontrollably under the weight of the blade. But Delphine would not stop the pain, as she dug it deeper, and deeper, until the tip could almost be seen through the palm.

But the elf still would not falter, though he did get two words out through the pain.

"Fuck….you…."

"He speaks!" Orleans exclaimed.

Delphine was not satisfied with this turn of events, however; she still needed everything from her captive. She began to pull out the dagger, but slowly, agonizingly slowly, listening to each gasp from the Altmer. When the blade finally left his skin, he had a few moments to recover, only for Delphine to immediately stab the other hand. The elf began to be terrified, terrified of this Nord girl with such fire in her eyes. It was as if a dremora had crawled out of Oblivion itself.

Yet he still did not falter, and Delphine became intensely frustrated.

"Excellent work so far," Orleans said. "But if our prisoner is not willing to give up anything after both of his hands have been incapacitated, it is clear that nothing will make him budge. Now, kill him, young Delphine. Preferably a quick death, as he has already suffered enough." Orleans spoke of such morbid topics so nonchalantly that it was clear that he had participated in many a torture in the past.

A sinking feeling arrived in Delphine's stomach, as she realized that she never had killed anyone before. She looked into the elf's face again, that young, determined face, and wondered if he had any family, relatives, friends. She thought about how devastated they would be if their son, their brother, their comrade was tortured to death in what was essentially a Cyrodiil prison.

But Delphine was going to do it. She was going to kill this mer, and she was going to become a Blade. She rose the dagger, and brought it to the prisoner's throat. She began to press down on his neck, and the elf began to gargle and cough as blood began to peer out of the incision. Despite the Grandmaster's wishes, this death was not going to be a quick one, and Delphine was making sure of this fact, as if all her anger from the past twenty-one years of her life was being taken out on this one person.

The dagger was slicing deeper, even deeper, as his eyes were rolling into the back of his head. Delphine was so close, so close to her victory, so close to her first immoral act, so close to her first kill...

She felt a strong hand on her shoulder, and immediately dropped the dagger, startled from what she was about to do. It was Esbern who had stopped her.

"Delphine, stop! You have passed your test."

A wave of relief passed over both the young woman and the elf, though he seemed completely drained of energy and blood. She looked at Esbern, and the two of them smiled, both realizing that the ordeal was done.

"I have had many a new recruit walk away at the last moment, or to accomplish the ordeal trying to not show emotion," Orleans spoke up. "But with the others, the mission was always to kill a dog or some other animal, and I apologize that we made you do it on a sentient being. With you, Delphine, I could see the turmoil within your soul, the moral dilemma going through your mind, which not only shows me that you have a strong moral compass, but that you will not be one to blindly follow orders, which, believe it or not, is an important trait in our line of business."

"I was going to kill him, Grandmaster, I know it. He's completely….innocent, and I was going to kill him."

"Yes, Delphine, war is not an easy thing for those that have grown up in peacetime to comprehend. All you have done is training, yet training can never truly prepare you for the reality. Be prepared to have your values tested."

"Of course, Grandmaster," Delphine acknowledged, realizing that Orleans was sounding almost exactly like her father, and even her father's father, who had witnessed many an atrocity by bandits.

"Rest assured, although we will keep this elf as our prisoner, you have my word that no more unnecessary pain will be inflicted upon him," Esbern said. "Besides, I doubt the higher-ups told him anything important," he whispered to the Grandmaster.

"Delphine Magnusson, daughter of Alvor Magnusson, it is my honor to welcome you into our ranks as a Knight-Sister of the Blades," Orleans said, now talking in a very formal manner. "Please, follow Esbern, he will lead you to our armories to suit you up. It will be a long ride to the Imperial City."

"You mean I'm already on a mission?" Delphine asked, astonished. "Not even a few days of training at the Temple, or something like that?"

"Well, you'll perhaps stay here for a day, but time is not on our side. The recruits from Skyrim shall be arriving in the next few weeks, and with them comes the need for our people to sort them out."

"Recruits from Skyrim!" Delphine thought. "Finally, they're letting us Nords have our chance in the light."

* * *

Such was the air of positivity that surrounded Delphine as she entered into what was perhaps her most important position yet. Yet despite their immense intelligence and knowledge, neither Delphine, nor Esbern, nor even the Grandmaster could have realized that the time of the Blades was almost over. For if there was one thing that the Thalmor hated as much as Tiber Septim, it was the Blades Order and everything it stood for.

Things would only get worse from here.

* * *

 **If you're enjoying what you see so far, please follow this story or leave a review!**


	4. Homecoming

**Sorry about the long delay! Finals craziness distracted me from writing for a few weeks, but now I'm back! Hope you enjoy my exploration of Windhelm...**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Homecoming**

 _31st of Second Seed, 4E 173_

The city guards saw nothing out of the ordinary as Ulfric left his horse at the nearby stables and approached Windhelm's gate. Dressed in commoner's clothes, he blended in perfectly with the mass of people flooding in and out of the city; it was almost sunset, and the farmers were taking their leftover produce back to their homes. Ulfric's journey had taken less than a day thanks to the kind lending of a horse by Ivarstead's innkeeper, so the young Nord did not feel tired at all. He was a man with a purpose: to see his father, his only living family.

Though Ulfric had been away from his hometown for a while, the memories of its layout quickly came back to him, as he traversed through the narrow corridors and dark stone buildings. He could tell that his wild, unkempt beard was garnering a few looks from the townsfolk, which was problematic since he did not want to be noticed until he reached the Palace of the Kings. As he was walking, he noticed a familiar teenager running around the streets with his friends: it was Rolff Stone-Fist, the younger brother of one of Ulfric's best friends, Galmar. He almost wanted to greet the boy to get to Galmar, but Ulfric wanted to keep a low profile, and figured it would be better to surprise the elder Stone-Fist by himself. Maybe he would be able to see his acquaintances as well. And Rikke. How could he forget about Rikke?

"Halt! You wish to enter the Palace of the Kings?" A guard shouted as Ulfric approached the massive and legendary structure, with three great flames lit on the outside. Just as he was about to berate the soldier for preventing the Jarl's son from entering his own home, Ulfric realized that the guard had every right to prevent suspicious-looking individuals (and he certainly looked the part) from gaining audience with the Jarl. Ulfric had to take the diplomatic approach.

"I am Ulfric Stormcloak, heir to the Jarl of Eastmarch, and I wish to speak with my father."

The guard raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing a single word of this ragged-looking individual. "Nice try, but Ulfric is in High Hrothgar, learnin' with the Greybeards. Get lost, fucking beggar."

"Very well, I will show you what I have learned."

Stepping back just the right amount, Ulfric took a deep breath, focused on his inner energy, and spoke the tongue of the dragons.

" _YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

With these words, literal fire spewed out of Ulfric's mouth, letting the guard feel the intense warmth on his face.

"I….I….I am sorry I doubted you, my prince," he said with a tone of astonishment and terror. "Please, your father should be in the throne room with his thanes."

Ulfric walked into the Palace, overjoyed that his Fire Breath finally worked when it needed to.

* * *

"My son, is that….is that you?" Hoag Stormcloak said in shock, forgetting whatever he was saying to his steward, as the red-headed young man entered the Palace's Great Hall.

"Yes, father, it is really me," Ulfric responded with a smile.

The Jarl of Eastmarch got off of his throne, and embraced his only child right on the steps. Dressed in the a fur-trimmed cloak typical of Nord nobility, Hoag's thick red beard almost matched his son's, only made different by Ulfric's lack of grooming. Though he could not have been older than fifty, his face was already worn like that of a senior, weathered by the stress of being both a leader and a fighter. Yet he still had his massive stature and pulsing muscles, so one could still understand why Hoag was called the Bear of Eastmarch.

"My son, why have you returned so soon? You were supposed to stay for a year or more, no?"

"Father, Arngeir informed me of the War….I had to come back."

"Ah. I see." Hoag seemed troubled and saddened by Ulfric's justification, but quickly hid his disappointment with a smile. "But no matter. You are home, and that is a joyous occasion! Have you met anyone else, any of your friends? Galmar? Or Rikke?"

"No, I came straight to you, of course."

"Well, I'm happy to hear that," Hoag said with a hearty laugh. "But yes, we must hold a feast in your honor, to make sure that everyone knows you have arrived! We can even do it tomorrow!"

"Oh please, Father, I don't need such a welcome."

"Nonsense, you are the Jarl's son! Do you want people to not know that such an important figure has returned to the Hold?"

"Yes, actually, I would prefer that," Ulfric mumbled under his breath. Knowing the complete stubbornness of his father, the young Nord realized there was no point in arguing any further: this feast was definitely happening. Ulfric's only problem was his complete lack of social interaction for the past two years; attending a gathering of complete strangers and long-forgotten family friends did not seem like the greatest way to acclimate to reality.

* * *

The Great Hall was now filled with well-dressed men and woman, both young and old. It was only a day after Ulfric's arrival, so the Stormcloaks were surprised that so many were able to accept the invitation and attend one of the Jarl's famous feasts. Perhaps some were scared of disobeying Hoag the Bear; others perhaps hoped to get close to him and gain favor; yet others were here to see the main event himself, the younger Stormcloak with the power of the Voice.

Thus was the person Galmar Stone-Fist was looking for as he rushed into the hall with a wrinkled noble's dress that he forgot to let dry. Though he had come in with his parents and brother, he quickly split off from them as he went to look for his friend. The dining had not yet started, so it was quite difficult to move through the crowds of people scattered about.

As he pushed through the thanes and wealthy merchants, Galmar saw his other best friend, Rikke, grabbing a drink from the alcohol stand set up in the East Wing.

"Hey Bronze!" He shouted, attracting her attention. Rikke Gold-Heart was looking absolutely stunning, as per usual. Her rich blond hair was expertly tied in a traditional Nordic knot, and she was wearing a spotless azure dress made of the finest silk. She was the best-dressed of the girls, and she wasn't even a noble, at least not technically; her father, formerly the lowly servant Tolvir Gold-Heart, had only became a thane when he saved Hoag Stormcloak's life from a sabre cat attack during a hunting expedition. The two became comrades for life, and with that friendship came unimaginable prosperity for Tolvir and his only child, a young daughter with a penchant for fighting; Rikke remembered appreciating their large house in Windhelm's West Quarter the most, as they gained an armory where she could practice with her favorite weapons.

"Galmar! Can you not call me 'Bronze' here!" She said, annoyed that he continued to use Rikke's childhood nickname, which originated as an insult, no less. "You don't see me calling you Clay-Finger, do you? At least try to act upper-class when you're at a public gathering."

"Oh please, I've known every person in here since I was in the womb, and they already know to expect nothing of me," Galmar retorted, always one to self-deprecate.

"Anyway, I'm surprised you even came in a woman's clothes," he continued. "I was half-expecting you to show up in iron armor."

"Ah, shut up. You know I've been trying to….change my image. Those damn rich girls can just never accept that just because I lived in the Grey Quarter 'till I was eight, that doesn't mean I'm not as much a woman as they could ever be."

Among the circles of Windhelm's elite, Rikke had always been ostracized by those of her own gender for her tomboyish personality and unusually short hair, so she had found her true friendship among two boys, Ulfric and Galmar. The three were a trio, always together, running around the streets, sparring in the armory, deciphering old texts in the Palace's library. But once Ulfric started going to the Greybeards, the group began to grow apart, only brought together by the Stormcloak's infrequent returns.

"Once a bitch, always a bitch," Galmar said, reminiscing on his romantic failures with Tova Long-Loom and Ingsel Wolf-Eye. "I've told you there's no point in trying to be friendly with them, Bronze. Now, where the hell is Ulfric?"

"You tell me, I've been looking for him for the past five minutes, and this room isn't that big. He probably skipped the party. Too many adults would be asking him about his monk studies, I guess."

"Well, he knew that we were gonna be here, no? Aren't we reason enough?"

Rikke did not have an answer, so the two fell silent with looks of worry on their faces, both wondering if perhaps Ulfric's experience on Hrothgar had changed him for the worse, that he would just stay holed up in his room for the whole time.

"Well, I'll go say hello to the Jarl," Galmar said suddenly. "If you see you-know-who, come and find me."

Rikke found herself alone again; she saw Tova and Ingsel talking with some dashing merchant Rikke had never seen before, and didn't wish to speak with. She saw her father, telling some story to Hoag Stormcloak, and Galmar, awkwardly walking into the conversation to give the Jarl a strong handshake. As usual, she felt out of place, but unlike Galmar, she was too self-conscious to ignore her anxiety. She wished at least one of her younger siblings were here, despite their annoying antics; at least they would understand her–

Rikke felt a strong hand clasp on her shoulder, jolting her out of her self-pity.

"Gods….Raincoat?!" The young woman said as she turned around and gazed at the well-groomed young man in front of her. Ulfric's thick beard had been trimmed and combed, and he had finally tossed his monk robes aside for a fur-trimmed coat with a hint of blue. As if some omen of the Divines, Ulfric and Rikke's clothing had ended up in the exact same shade of color.

"It's been so long Bronz–Rikke, I mean Rikke! Gods, I'm sorry, do people still call you that?"

"Well, of course Galmar still does, but he has no consideration for my feelings anyway," Rikke responded with a little smile, overjoyed on seeing her old friend at last.

Ulfric was about to say something, but then he saw a sudden flash of anger in his friend's eyes.

"But hey now, where in Oblivion have you been?! The party started half an hour ago, Galmar and I have been looking for your ass!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just….I didn't know if I was ready to see all these people, you know? I don't want to be asked to 'demonstrate the Voice' or 'share meditation techniques' with random old nobles."

"And what about us?!" Rikke shouted a little too loudly, turning everyone's eyes towards her and Ulfric. The young Stormcloak sighed, realizing that his attempt at a discrete entrance had been foiled; soon enough, he would have to go over and talk to those curious old nobles.

"Well, that's why I decided to come down. I figured that maybe Galmar, or you, would be here."

"Oh," Rikke said, now feeling mistaken in her outburst.

"My thanes! My jarl!" A voice suddenly shouted in the middle of the hall. It was Torbjorn, the Palace's steward, tapping on a glass to gain the party's attention. "The food will be arriving shortly, so I would encourage everyone to begin to get seated. I assure you there is room for everyone!"

"Come, let's make sure Galmar doesn't get stuck with the girls," Ulfric said, pulling Rikke by the arm towards the table.

Unlike the ornately detailed dining chairs of the South, the Nords preferred to sit on sets of plain wooden benches in their great halls, the idea being that the lack of separation by armrests would bring the party-goers together. Of course, there was a chair made of Cyrodiil-imported oak at the head of the table for the Jarl, but everyone else, whether important thane or lowly merchant's son, had an equality of comfort, which is to say, not very much.

Ulfric and Galmar finally saw each other, and after making an overly complicated "secret" handshake, the two of them and Rikke went to sit down near the front of the longtable. The food started to come out of the Palace kitchen, and although the staff had had just a day to prepare it, the selection was magnificent: Two freshly-caught wild boar, a massive potato salad, a sweetroll for every guest, and gallons of the finest Honningbrew mead. The meal was truly one fit for a king, and the conversations became more interesting and revealing the more drinks that were consumed.

"Talos's ass, man, I never thought you would get off that mountain!" Galmar exclaimed, having just finished his fourth pint.

"Watch your language, or otherwise the elves'll hang you by your tits!" Rikke responded crassly, already drunk off her first pint.

Everyone knew about the stories. The Thalmor burning alive anyone who even uttered the name of Talos. Their destruction of His monuments, shrines, books. To the Nords, such acts were not only complete sacrilege, but also completely ridiculously and petty. Rikke couldn't help but joke about it.

So the three old friends talked and talked and talked. Right near them sat their three fathers, Hoag Stormcloak, Tolvir Gold-Heart, and Yngol Stone-Fist. The elder Stone-Fist was dressed in his famous bear-skin armor that he wore to most formal occasions; he was almost a mirror image of Galmar, with the added effects of age on his grey hair and stubble.

The elder Gold-Heart had a more southern outfit, with bright-green noble's clothes made of embroidered silk. He was the youngest of the fathers, as his glowing golden hair and beard showed, and he was also the smallest, looking quite out of place next to the massive bulk of the Jarl and Tolvir.

Having drunk much less than the young adults, the men kept the conversation civil: They talked about politics both local and interprovincial, the reduced crop outcomes in Eastmarch due to the outflow of farmers, raids by desperate Dunmer bandits and enterprising bandits, and all sorts of other such topics. Ulfric, wanting to know more about the Hold's situation due to his long absence, ended up becoming engrossed in the fathers' conversation, while Galmar seemed bored out of his mind. The young Stormcloak saw the look of melancholy on his friend's face, and he decided to give up his absorption of knowledge to get the Stone-Fist back in an excited mood.

"So you two are going to Cyrodiil, right?" Ulfric abruptly said with a sly, but serious smile.

"Please, Raincoat, enough with that shit. You've been dreaming of joining the Legion since you were twelve damn years old, and that's all it is, a stupid dream."

"Well, we're lucky we have a choice, aren't we? All the holds have to send half their farmers down south, but we get to sit here in our palaces and watch the Empire fall apart? War's going on, Clay-Finger, I don't think you understand the situation here."

"And you do?"

Ulfric saw that the three fathers, along with about half the table, were now intently listening to the sons' conversation with looks of unease on their faces. He knew that everyone there, all the rich draft-dodgers of the city, were definitely on Galmar's side, so he had to choose his next words very carefully. He took a deep breath, remembering Arngeir's teachings: _Let go of your feelings, your anger, your sadness. Simply do what you need to do, say what you need to say._

"Galmar, I remember you always telling me you've wanted to be a part of something greater, something that actually had purpose, had consequence. You've always wanted to leave Windhelm, leave Eastmarch, leave this old boring life behind, right?"

Ulfric could see his friend's face thinking back, reminiscing on his old thoughts.

"Come on, man, it'll be exciting! We've never fought in a real battle, a real war. All that sparring in the training yard'll finally come in handy."

"I'll think about it," Galmar finally said, in an uncharacteristically quiet tone.

"Well, you'll have plenty of time to think about it while we eat the desert!" Rikke interjected, trying to steer the topic away from the current conversation. "Also, Ulfric, I'm you're going to Cyrodiil, then I'm definitely coming," she whispered in his ear with a smile.

"Well, at least that's two of us," Ulfric whispered back as the servants brought around the next batch of sweet rolls. "Galmar made it seem like he has to decide, but I know he's already come around in his mind, he always does. He just doesn't want to admit it."

Ulfric saw the rest of the table getting back to their own little conversations now, quietly mumbling things about 'reckless Stormcloak' or 'shameful son.' Ulfric could feel the resentment of the Empire permeating the entire room, but he didn't let that bother him. He had said what he needed to say, and he was satisfied.

If the rest of Skyrim wasn't going to help save the world, the young Stormcloak figured he might as well try.

* * *

 **Once you've finished reading, I would reaally appreciate it if you left a review! Even if it's just one sentence, that's perfectly fine, I would just like some feedback on the direction the story's going.**


	5. False Dynasty and True Hope

**Chapter 4: False Dynasty and True Hope**

 _2nd of Midyear, 4E 173_

Titus Mede was upset. Of course, as the emperor of a nation under siege for the past two years, there were many things to be unhappy about, but the present situation particularly disheartened the aging ruler; he wondered if there was even a chance for the Empire's survival after the events of yesterday.

Anvil had been taken. Cyrodiil's largest port, the lifeline to the Eltheric Ocean, was now occupied by Dominion forces. Titus did not want to believe the news, but his spies, his scouts, his messengers, and the legionnaires fleeing the doomed city all confirmed this worst possibility. The situation had not always been so grim; even though Bravil and Leyawiin had been taken in the first few months of the War by a lightning-fast strike by land and naval forces, cutting off Cyrodiil's entire southern half, the Legion was still able to hold the Nibenay Valley and completely stall the elven advance. Trenches and fortifications cut right through farms and small villages, and every man, woman, and child was made dedicated to the war effort.

But for all of their hard work, discipline, and fervor, the brave Men, Mer, and Beasts of Anvil were not able to stop the might of the Dominion navy. Titus knew he should have listened to his advisors when they told him to build more ships for the Legion, but the emperor overestimated the strength of the Redguards' navy, known to have the fastest caravels in Tamriel. But Titus had not considered that Hammerfell would be so preoccupied with Thalmor forces on their own shores; thus Anvil's army of fishing boats was forced up against the largest naval force in the world.

In fact, the Redguards had been of no help at all in the entire war, thanks of their deeply polarized society: on one side, there were the Crowns, descendants of the nobility, and keepers of the ancient Yokudan religion and traditions; on the other, the Forebears, representing the common folk, who believed in the Divines and the more Imperial tradition. This divide, between old and new, Liberal and Conservative, had rocked Hammerfell for centuries, periodically causing civil war and constantly causing civil strife. So when the Legion came to assist the local militia back in 171, they only found corruption and complete lack of faith in authority, leading to the Thalmor to swiftly take over Hegathe, Gilane, and Taneth, and the rest of southern Hammerfell. The Empire was pushed to Hammerfell's north, forced to trek across the harsh Alik'r Desert in the infamous "March of Thirst." For two years, the Legion had gained next to no ground in the Redguards' province, and the Emperor had also recently received reports that the troops there were quickly losing morale and discipline. He had a full-blown crisis on his hands, on two fronts.

Even if the draftees from High Rock were still coming, they would take even longer to arrive with the complete Thalmor blockade of the sea routes. They would have to come the long way, through Skyrim. Speaking of Skyrim, those blond-haired imbeciles were the last people that the Emperor wished to deal with.

Titus simply did not like the Nords; he knew that many of them still did not accept him and his family as rulers of Skyrim. Reman Cyrodiil, the founder of the Second Empire, had the dragon's blood and the power of the Voice, able to bend both the fiery creatures and the Akaviri to his will. Tiber Septim, the founder of the Third Empire, was able to not only surpass Reman in mastery of the Voice, but also happened to be from Skyrim; he marched into the Imperial City with an army of Reachmen and and intensely loyal Nords. But Titus II's ancestor, the original Titus Mede, was some minor lord from Kvatch, who took advantage of the chaos created by the Oblivion Crisis and the Imperial Civil War. The Medes were not Dragonborn, nor were they descendants of one, and Titus II knew that the Nords hated their very being. Skyrim was too stubborn, too drunk on its own pride.

Yet Titus knew that the only way he could win this war was with the Nords' help, damn their very being. The thousands of fresh troops could do wonders for the front lines, both in Cyrodiil and Hammerfell. Perhaps the tides could really be turned, but it remained to be seen how respectful of authority the Nords would be; he doubted they would even have the mental capacity to follow orders.

Thus were the thoughts the Emperor was having as he paced around his bedroom, still in his nightgown, and careful not to wake up his dear wife the queen from her deep slumber. He had barely been able to sleep, thinking about battle strategies and grain rations in the Nibenay Valley and all sorts of other official business. He was trying to remember something important his son had told him, and attempting to put himself back to sleep, when his train of thought was abruptly stopped by a servant that was far too energetic for 7 o'clock in the morning.

"Your Majesty!" The young Imperial said, entering the royal bedroom through the massive oak double doors. Titus knew he should have kept those closed, so the servants would at least have to knock. "The War Council wishes to speak with you immediately!"

"Right now?!" The Emperor asked irritatedly, incredulous that his advisors had the ability to wake up so early. It seemed that the war had affected everyone's ability for a good night's rest.

"Um, yes, ideally right now, Your Majesty," the servant responded, uneased by Titus's temper.

"Very well, I suppose they will give me no time to change," the Emperor sighed as he took off his nightcap and began a slow walk to the Council Room.

* * *

"You know, even when you were gone, I still told the maids to make sure your room was spotless," Hoag said while standing in the doorway, mildly startling Ulfric with the sudden appearance. _Damn, my own father is reminding me of Arngeir. Perhaps the two aren't so different after all._

"Oh, Father, I didn't see you there!"

Ulfric was going through his drawers, searching to find anything that could fit in his satchel for the long journey ahead. So far he had a sack of gold, bread straight from the oven, and a single set of day clothes.

"I assume you're gonna see me out?" The younger Stormcloak asked.

"Uh, yes, of course," the elder Stormcloak responded, and Ulfric could immediately detect the lack of confidence in his father's voice. Suddenly, he realized that Hoag was not in the doorway for comfort; he would be preventing Ulfric from leaving.

"Father, if you don't want me to go, please tell me now. The carriage leaves in a few hours."

Hoag sighed and put a hand to his face. "I knew I should have done something earlier, when you were younger. It's too late."

"What do you mean?"

"Ulfric, your infatuation with the Empire has gone too far," Hoag said, completely straight-faced.

"Infatuation….what….it's just common sense?!" Ulfric exclaimed, incredulous that suggesting an admiration for one's rulers was being deemed as a negative trait.

"What do you think your mother would think? Do you think she would have liked me sending her son off to Cyrodiil to die?!"

"My mother!" Ulfric exclaimed after a moment, rage seething in him over his father's pathetic appeal to emotions long since buried. "What, you think I'm going to dishonor her memory or some crap like that, that you would always say to shut me up? Do not bring my mother into this. It's all your fault, you damn geriatrics who can't get over that the Emperor isn't a damn Septim anymore!"

"It is not that simple!" Hoag screamed furiously with a bright-red face. Ulfric stared wide-eyed and backed down from whatever he was about to say. Hoag calmed down after a few moments, regaining his breath and regretting his outburst.

"What I mean to say, my son, is that the Medes deserve no service from us. They've never liked us, Ulfric, and they never will. Back when Titus Mede, the first one, came to power, your great-grandfather put his foot down and refused to bend his knee to such a power-grabbing schemer. Titus was not a Septim, he wasn't even a Dragonborn. He was a opportunist, who used the chaos in Cyrodiil to further his own agenda. He had no right to the throne."

"Father, I remember my history lessons: Titus the First was one of the greatest rulers of recent memory! His reign was one of peace and prosperity not achieved since Tiber Septim himself," Ulfric retorted with a little bit of anger still simmering.

"Aye, that's what the books tell you, books written by Imperials, for Imperials. When your great-grandfather Søren Stormcloak tried to found an independent Skyrim, away from Titus's greedy hands, the 'Emperor' took his army, marched right up to the gates of Windhelm, and sacked it. He embarrassed Søren, forced him to give up his armor and his sword, forced him to kiss Titus's ring finger."

"You….you never told me any of this, that this was how our Stormcloak artifacts were lost" Ulfric said with a shocked tone. "You told me the exploits of all our ancestors, but never about this one."

"I felt it was better if you only learned about the best Stormcloaks, so that you would aspire to be like them. It seems I was wrong to withhold this information," Hoag responded, thinking back to what he could have done differently. "But yes, Titus, or any of the Medes, never gave us any aid, any support….when Dunmer raiders were raping our women and destroying Eastmarch's farms, no Legions came to our rescue. We had to wage guerrilla warfare on the entirety of Eastern Morrowind. The Septims, they loved us Nords, we saw each other as brethren. But these Medes, I would be surprised if they even saw us as human."

Ulfric saw the deep sadness in Hoag's eyes, the humiliation, the betrayal he felt. The young Stormcloak now understood his father more than he had in his entire short lifetime.

"So….I shouldn't go?"

"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter much at this point. If I had real balls to stand up to the Emperor's swarthy arse, I would have resisted sending half my countrymen to the front. But I didn't, and now I'll have to live the fact that my people will be dying for a cause that they should not be fighting for."

"Father, please, don't say that-"

"I won't hear it! Just….just finish your packing and I'll see you off, alright?" Hoag forced himself to make a smile, though clearly still in great distress. Seeing the disappointment in Ulfric's face, the old Jarl shuffled awkwardly out the room and walked away.

* * *

"Ah, Your Majesty! I see you had no time to groom today!" Marcus Vespuccius said with a chuckle, always one to laugh at his own jokes.

"No, I did not, Lord Vespuccius, because the War Council decided to call a meeting before I even had time to put on my robes!" The Emperor responded as he entered the Council Room, holding back the insults he wanted to fling at the fat, bald Imperial noble. The only reason Marcus was this close to Titus was his position as Chancellor of the Elder Council; even though the Council had been mostly deprived of its power by the first Titus, formalities required that the Chancellor would at least have a small amount of say in the government.

"Ahem, apologies for my insolence, Your Majesty," Marcus said, quickly putting on a straight face.

"You are excused. Now, let us get to business," Titus said, taking a seat at the front of the ornate red table within the Council Room of the Palace's west wing. Compared to the tall windows and wide hallways of the rest of the building, the area where the Emperor would meet his advisors was a welcome change of scenery. Around the table, there was only room for eight chairs, five of which were filled.

There was of course Marcus directly right of the Emperor's chair; there was Xerxo A'tora, the aging representative of Hammerfell, who would often fall asleep right in the middle of meetings; Jacques Motierre, the fresh young representative of High Rock whom Titus was sure was deeply corrupt and a fraud, but had no definite proof; Jorgen Firebeard, the level-headed representative of Skyrim who was one of the few Nords that Titus could tolerate; and Quintus Tullius Superbus, High Commander of the Imperial Legion and the Emperor's own cousin.

Essentially, the group was compiled of people who were both the most skilled and the most clueless on the topics of military strategy and combat, but it was all Titus could muster; his other generals were on different fronts, and his actual military advisor was on a secret mission to Bravil. The Emperor was at least thankful that Quintus was present, as he was the only person that could be trusted to be competent.

"Very well," Marcus said, looking over the stack of papers in front of him. Titus assumed that most of that parchment was covered with gibberish to make the Chancellor to look more professional, but the Emperor said nothing; he did not want to risk alienating the Elder Council any more than they had already been by his Mede ancestors.

"The first order of business is the aftermath of the….unfortunate fall of Anvil." The feeling in the War Council shifted to that of deep sorrow, and anticipation of the Emperor's reaction.

"Well, get on with it! What is there to say?" Titus said.

"The troops that have retreated, perhaps about five thousand, have made disorganized camps all across Kvatch County. Adding in the peasant refugees whose farms and villages the Dominion have begun to burn down, and we're looking at a crisis in this county. They barely have enough food to feed their own people, and barely enough resources to hold the southern front against Wood Elf and Khajiit advancements."

"And may I add," Xerxo spoke up drowsily in his thick accent, "that the situation in Hammerfell grows dire as well. To get to Sentinel, the Elves have begun to cross the Alik'r Desert, and only Skaven stands in their way to the capital. I suggest–"

"Hammerfell's situation was the second item on our agenda, Master A'tora," Marcus interrupted, clearly irritated by the old Redguard's antics. "We should not bog down His Majesty's mental faculties with two pressing issues at once."

"Excuse me? Do you take me for a stupid child, Lord Vespuccius?!" Titus exclaimed, putting his hands in the air in disbelief and forgetting his pledge to be friendly with the Elder Council. "Do you think I cannot hold two thoughts in my brain at a time?!"

He had feeling especially cynical and sarcastic this past few days, and the War Council could feel it. The Emperor was not his normal, optimistic self. The stress of war had even crept up on one that had not even lifted a sword.

"No, no, of course not, Your Majesty, of course not." Marcus stumbled over his words. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jacques and Jorgen struggling to hold in a laugh, and Quintus sitting directly across, stone-faced and clearly having a great dislike for everyone at the table except for Titus.

After a few moments of tense silence, the Emperor broke it with a great sigh. "Apologies, my sirs. I have not been myself today. I do not think such an early meeting was a great idea, I shall go rest for a bit and we may meet again in the afternoon."

"Wait, Your Majesty!" Jorgen said quickly, with his great orange beard shining in the morning light from the Council Room's windows. "I must inform you that the bulk of the recruits from Skyrim are beginning to arrive today. Just over two thousand pulled in this morning!"

"Ah, wonderful!" Titus said with a smile, hiding his mild discomfort.

"Do not worry, we have made sure that any rebellious Nords have been sent straight home."

"Rebellious? What do you mean, that Nords would be Thalmor sympathizers?"

"Oh, no, I mean all the movements to restore a Septim claimant to the throne. They tend to be concentrated in Skyrim, so that was a critical issue that we made sure to weed out."

"Ah, yes, of course," Titus said with an exaggerated realization. "I've heard of these hooligans. They'd try to find another Martin Septim, some low-life with Talos's nose and claim him a long-lost descendant."

"Honestly, Your Majesty, I cannot imagine why such barbaric pale savages would continue to attack your throne and your legitimacy," Marcus said in a clear move to mend his ties with the Emperor after embarrassing him twice in the span of five minutes.

"Uh, yes, I cannot imagine why as well," Jorgen asserted, slightly off-put by Marcus's 'savages' comment.

"It's simple: they're infatuated with the Septims. They think they were 'one of them,' even though they had essentially become Imperial by the end of their four-hundred year reign," Titus said, speaking to no one in particular. "Ah, but no matter. Thank you for your service, Master Firebeard. I have not been myself, and I feel I should try and rest a bit to restore my mental faculties. We shall meet again in the afternoon, yes?"

The other council members affirmed solemnly, and began to shuffle out of their seats and go off and pretend to be busy for a few hours. But even though he did not appear so on the outside, deep down, Titus was fearful of these people who questioned his legitimacy. The Emperor held his power through the belief of his subjects; anything less would lead to tyranny and chaos, and his glorious Empire could be easily dismantled. If this movement spread, disavowing Titus and spitting on his family name, he could soon find himself with nothing but an elven dagger at his throat.

Or perhaps even more probable, a Nordic dagger.

* * *

Ulfric was left confused and shaken, and unsure if the path he had chosen was the correct one. He thought his conflict and indecision had ended at High Hrothgar, but his insecurities continued to follow him.

"It's not like I have a choice at this point anyway. I've committed," he muttered to himself as he sifted through his drawers to see if the servants had left anything behind while cleaning. To his surprise, he found a glowing ruby amulet, in the shape of an almost perfect diamond. It was a replica of the legendary Amulet of Kings, the necklace worn by the Septim Emperors; it was Sera Stormcloak's gift to her son on his tenth birthday. Ulfric remembered how he always used to wear it, how he used to pretend he was Emperor Stormcloak and Galmar was his loyal servant. He had tried to make Rikke his queen, but she always rejected him, usually with a punch to the arm.

Ulfric's thoughts began to dwell on his mother, and he came on the verge of tears. She was a sweet, loving woman, who wanted nothing more than to make her only child the best person he could possibly be. But she knew how difficult it was to have borne Ulfric, how many miscarriages she had had before her son. She knew the risks, yet she became pregnant again; this time, the baby would be the death of her. Mother and child, killed in one fell swoop. Ulfric remembered seeing his baby sister, a shriveled fetus on the operating table, a terrifying apparition he was not meant to see. And Sera, bleeding out, in pain….

Ulfric pushed those dark thoughts out of his head, and brought himself back to reality. "Why is the amulet even here," he said to himself. When Arngeir was first taking him to Hrothgar, he was told to leave all his worldly possessions behind, so he put away his last memory of his mother, and never looked at it again, lest it remind Ulfric of her again. Perhaps Hoag had seen the Amulet, but chose to leave it for his son to find.

Yes, that was it. This amulet was Hoag's last gift, his symbol for a golden age long past, and for a golden woman long passed to Aetherius.

Ulfric decided to put it on. It fit him perfectly, and he felt a strange sensation around his body, as if the Amulet was enchanted. Perhaps it was, or perhaps his mother's spirit had hid itself within the center jewel. But regardless, the necklace gave him new life, and new determination. This Amulet represented his two worlds, his home of Skyrim, and his nation of Cyrodiil. So what if Titus II's ancestors had done the Stormcloaks wrong? The son is not responsible for the sins of the father, after all, and the idea of the Empire was more important than the singular figure leading it.

Now he knew his father was wrong; of course his mother would approve of going off to the War! If it was for a noble cause, and if it was what her son wanted to do, how could Sera have refused?

Ulfric packed his remaining items with such fierce speed that he seemed to be under a Fury spell, and began to rush outside to catch the cart to the Imperial City. Before he stepped out of his room, he looked around one last time, knowing that he might never see it again, and uttered a small prayer under his breath.

"May my ancestors smile at me, may they keep me loyal to my cause and loyal to my comrades."

With that, Ulfric set out on the worst journey of his life.


	6. Training Day

**Chapter 5: Training Day**

 _9th of Midyear, 4E 173_

Ulfric had only visited Cyrodiil once before, when he was just ten years old, and when his father's distaste for the Empire had not reached its climax. The former Emperor Optimus Mede's brother had died, so the aging ruler thought that such an occasion would be the ideal time to summon all the leaders of the Empire for a massive convention about the state of affairs in each province. The young Ulfric had begged Hoag to let him see the Emperor in person, and Hoag conceded to his son's whims.

Ulfric remembered his initial amazement at the White-Gold Tower, and now that he was seeing it once again as an adult, he realized that his sheer awe over the Tower had not diminished one bit from his childhood days. Its glistening marble spire stood far above anything else in the city, or any man-made structure in Skyrim for that matter. Ulfric gazed at it and felt a strange sensation, perhaps of pride, or patriotism, or even anticipation of what was to come; it was certainly a positive feeling, however.

"Gods, after sitting in a carriage for a week, that is some spectacular view to end on," Galmar said in an uncharacteristically sincere tone, shocking Ulfric and Rikke. Clearly there were some things that did impress the cynical bastard, after all.

As Galmar alluded to, the journey was not exactly a pleasant one. The carriage's cover was thin, making the pass through the Jerall Mountains frigid and miserable, and the squeezing of six people into a single cart made the seating arrangements quite uncomfortable. Even though their driver was a nice person, an old mild-mannered Nord legionnaire named Jon, his stories of his youth adventures grew tiresome after a while. And the sheer amount of carriages going from Skyrim to Cyrodiil because of the draft led to massive congestion on the roads, elongating the journey by at least a day.

But they arrived, alive and well, at their destination. The outskirts of the City seemed exactly as Ulfric remembered it, with the lush rolling hills and elegant dark-wood houses surrounding Lake Rumare unchanged from a decade ago. But as he continued to look outside the carriage, he noticed large amounts of ill-dressed peasants squatting around, begging to the townsfolk around them, and looking completely wretched.

These were the refugees that the Ulfric had heard so much about, driven out of their farms and villages either from threat of Dominion attack or a direct invasion. Of course, everyone had heard the propaganda, that the Khajiit would eat the women and the Wood Elves would eat the children, and that the High Elves would rape anyone left over. But looking at the desperate eyes of these dirty and hopeless folk showed Ulfric that there was some truth to the exaggerations; they had truly experienced horror.

An ounce of fear began to creep up on the young Stormcloak. He saw the large camps on the west side of Weye, with decrepit tents stuffed with entire extended families. But Ulfric focused on the faces of these people, and that gave him dread. The dread was in the men, forced to give up their dignity to beg for scraps; it was in the women, as they clutched their babies in their arms and breastfed them right in the open. Thankfully, the dread did not seem to have reached the children, as many of them ran around playing games of tag and hide-and-seek. At least they still retained their innocence.

"Daydreaming again?" Rikke asked, lightly tapping Ulfric's shoulder.

"What? Oh, no, I was just….thinking."

"Hey, you think I didn't see you sulking about the peasants? I know you'd like to be seen as strong and unfeeling, but it's okay to feel real emotion."

Ulfric sighed, knowing that Rilke had spoken the truth, and responded, "I don't know, I've never seen anything like this before. These camps are terrible, there's no room for anyone. Are they not letting anyone into the City?"

"The word is that the Emperor banned any refugees from even setting foot on the Imperial Isle," said Dres, a twenty-something Dunmer who was on the same carriage and overheard Ulfric and Rikke's conversation, even though he appeared to be asleep just seconds ago. "The City's probably already full enough as it is, so they don't need the slums becoming even worse, I'd suppose."

"Hm, I suppose that makes sense." Ulfric conceded while letting out another large sigh. "But it still feels wrong."

* * *

"Everyone, please make nice and orderly lines please, and separate yourselves by gender!" A slim Imperial barked at the disorganized crowd of draftees. The entrance to the Legion's New Arrivals IX tent was almost completely blockaded by these aspiring soldiers of many different races (but mostly Nords) who were beginning to become impatient by the Imperials' obsessive need for order.

Jon the driver had led Ulfric and the others on quite the run-around during the day. Once the carriage crossed the Talos Bridge and entered the City proper, the guards informed them that any draftees were to report to the training camps right outside the City walls, forcing Jon to go all the way from the Market District to the Arboretum to find a suitable exit. Because of the sheer amount of new recruits and soldiers pouring into Cyrodiil, the Emperor decided it would be advantageous to set aside a large plot on the Imperial Isle just for the Legion's operations.

Though this trip meant more time sitting on the carriage, Ulfric still enjoyed taking in the atmosphere and bustle of the City. He remembered when he was a child that carriages, or horses of any kind, were barely allowed within the walls; perhaps the War had necessitated faster travel for messengers and the like. Half of the people walking around did seem to be dressed in Legion armor, after all, showing that the wartime spirit had even reached capital.

Yet, despite hearing rumors of rationing going on in the City, Ulfric saw no such evidence of that: shopkeepers in the Market District still seemed to have full stocks and there were few beggars running around. The difference between the refugees just across the lake and the healthy denizens in the walls was almost absurd.

Ulfric was deep in thought when he was jostled out of his daydreaming by a push from Rikke.

"Gods, Ulfric, daydreaming again? We're forming a line now, we have to get in order!" She said.

"Damn it, Rikke! Do you not realize how ridiculous the situation in the City is compared to the outside?! It's like a whole world by itself, I can't help but not think about it."

Rikke was about to try and say something clever, but backed off, only saying a "Sorry." She did feel like she nagged Ulfric a little too much sometimes, and she did not want him feeling too annoyed at her; they were like brother and sister, after all, and they had to keep each other happy.

The two of them separated into the male and female lines, with Galmar standing right behind Ulfric. Despite the traditional rowdiness of Nords, the lines were created quickly and without fuss; everyone wanted to be done with this ordeal as quickly as possible, and with over fifty new recruits and growing just at this tent, it would certainly take a while.

Ulfric looked around and saw that all the other "organization tents" were in a similar situation; there must have been hundreds of draftees on that campground, many of whom probably really did not want to be here.

So the initial identification process began, where underpaid scribes would repeat the same tired questions to one draftee after another. After about ten people, Ulfric's turn finally came.

"Name?" Asked the scribe, a young black-haired Imperial.

"Ulfric."

"First _and_ last name," the Imperial said irritatedly, having said those same words multiple time to the dense Northerners.

"Stormcloak."

"Storm-what?" The Imperial responded, having trouble understanding Ulfric's thick accent.

"Cloak! Like the thing you wear! You've never heard of the Stormcloaks?!"

"Um….I don't believe I have…."

"We're the Jarls of Eastmarch, for the gods' sake."

"Eastmarch….Eastmarch….oh, of course! Forgive me for my ignorance, my lord," the Imperial exclaimed worryingly, suddenly realizing that he was speaking to nobility. "So you're royalty, aren't you?"

"I suppose you could say that, but we don't really think of noble titles like you Imperials do," Ulfric said, right as Galmar whispered in his ear to 'get on with it and just give him the damn info already.'

"No matter, Lord Stormcloak. Now, what is your age?

"Twenty-one."

"And your precise area of origin?"

"Windhelm, Eastmarch Hold."

"Do you possess any fighting skill?"

"Well, I haven't used a weapon in years, but I can certainly fight with any weapon you give me. Perhaps not a two-handed one though."

"Okay, and do you possess any magical ability?"

Ulfric knew he had to choose his words very carefully here. Obviously, he had never been trained in any of the traditional schools of magic (besides a minor introduction to enchanting by the Palace's court wizard Wuunferth), the power of the Voice did count as an element of magical ability. But he remembered Arngeir telling him that the Voice was never to be used in combat, or to bring harm to any living thing: the ancient Nords had used the power to expand their empire and enslave anyone that stood in their way, and they paid dearly for their hubris.

Ulfric now thought himself an idiot for not asking the old Greybeard whether such a serious time of war would be an exception to the rule.

"No, I don't know a single ounce of magic," Ulfric said with an outward air of confidence.

"Alright, thank you for your time and your service, Lord Stormcloak. Now, please head over to Legate Potema's tent to the far right for your physical examination. It's the tent where all the other recruits have gone to."

"Physical examination?"

"Well, of course. You draftees can _say_ whatever you want to us, but our trainers need you to prove your skill!" The Imperial gave a devious smile.

* * *

"Well, that looks like all the rookies for today," said a dark-skinned Imperial with brown hair tied in a bun and dressed in silver Legion armor. The disorganized crowd of tired men and mer had assembled in a moderately-sized clearing surrounded by four tents.

"I am Legate Potema, and I will be your trainer for your first test today, to prove your fitness for the Imperial Legion."

"Who in Oblivion names their kid after the fucking Wolf Queen," Galmar whispered to Ulfric, but not softly enough as Potema's ears pricked up at the statement.

"Don't think I didn't hear that!" She exclaimed irritatedly, forgetting whatever she was about to say. Galmar's eyes widened as he realized his mistake. "Come forward, Nord! What is your name!?"

"Uh, Galmar Stone-Fist."

"Well, Lord Stone-Fist, I was planning on explaining some tactics first, but I believe it will be more helpful to start with you first, given your insult to my parents."

"But Potema, I didn't mean–"

" _Legate_ Potema is what you will refer to me as! Do they not teach you any damn manners in Skyrim? How to even respect women?"

"Well, in Skyrim, we don't put every damn woman on a pedestal. We actually treat ourselves equally," Galmar retorted as he walked forward toward the smug Legate.

"Ah, we have a radical here! And a strong one too. For how young you look, you certainly have quite some strength in your arms."

"Oh, you are too kind, my Legate." Ulfric and Rikke groaned at Galmar's attempt at acting composed, and the other trainees watched on in curious amusement. They could guess what was about to happen next, and it was sure to be entertaining.

"Here, take this _gladius,_ " Potema said as she threw him a medium-sized steel sword. "This will be your standard issue Legion sword."

"And what am I to do with it?"

"Try and disarm me." The Legate uttered these words with a menacing calm.

"O….Okay, My Legate, whatever you say." Galmar was clearly not ready. In his days training at Windhelm's armory, he had always gravitated towards the battleaxe and other such two-handed weapons, believing them to be the best way to utilize his immense strength in battle. One of the reasons he was so reluctant to join the Imperial Legion was that he knew the obsession Cyrodiil had for the puny one-handed arts.

Galmar tried to take an imposing fighting stance, but ended up looking quite awkward compared to Potema's confident and graceful stance a few feet away. Everyone watching could immediately tell which person was more competent.

Galmar let out a battlecry as he charged towards the Legate. He made a forceful downward slash that Potema was easily able to block, but she was still startled by the sheer force behind the blade.

"You Nords are always about strength," she said as the two locked blades. "But sword fighting is not just about overpowering your opponent, it's also about outsmarting them."

Instead of trying to push back against Galmar, which was clearly a fool's effort, Potema quickly pulled back her sword, putting the young Nord off balance. With a forceful side slash, Potema knocked the gladius right out of Galmar's hands and sent it tumbling to the ground. The Legate put the sword at Galmar's throat, with him still in a slight daze over how quickly he was outmaneuvered.

"And that, my pupil, is how you would die to a trained Altmeri soldier. They would quickly identify that you have no sense of tactics, so they would simply pull back and make a forceful parry to end the fight as quickly as it began."

"I-I see," were the only words Galmar could muster, having been quite humiliated, by an Imperial woman no less.

"Heed this lesson well, recruits: in this world, the strongest does not always have the advantage. In fact, they are often at a disadvantage, especially against the swift Khajiit and Bosmer. Do not forget that our enemies are not simply just the High Elves."

A few people looked at the only Bosmer in the crowd, as he tried not to pay attention to the stares and focus on Potema's words. He was determined to prove that he was not the enemy.

"Now, who would like to challenge me next?" Potema asked with an almost evil smile. "No one? You all have to fight me as a part of your first test, so there's no point in delaying!"

"I will fight you," said the small brown-haired Bosmer, with a look of anger on his face. He was not a fan of Potema's arrogance, and, just like everyone else, he wanted to get this ordeal over with.

But even though he had great agility, the wily Wood Elf was still bested by Potema as she was still able to disarm him, though it took much longer than in the fight with Galmar.

"Remember, elf, just because you are fast, that does not mean you are infallible. Your moves were predictable, so I read them easily and found my target."

The test continued through the afternoon, with many of the Nords, not used to using such a small sword, constantly getting bested by Potema's speed and footwork. Even Rikke was not able to best her, being more used to using axes and maces.

Eventually, as she became tired from all the sparring, a few draftees were able to disarm her after tremendous effort, but none of the successful ones were Nords. Dres the Dunmer, for instance, held the gladius backwards like a dagger, and was able to bring it right up to the Legate's throat. Though Potema decried the unorthodox method, she applauded his skill nonetheless.

"Step forward, redhead, and let us see if you are any better than the other Nords," the bloodthirsty Legate said as she finally set her sights on Ulfric. He gripped the gladius nervously, as he really did not want to be embarrassed like Galmar and Rikke. Compared to them, however, he was a master swordsmen.

Hoag had always been a little disappointed that his son gravitated towards one-handed swords rather than the battleaxes traditionally associated with the Stormcloak line. But in Ulfric, his father saw a fighter more concerned with agility and tactics than brute strength; such intelligence was required in a Skyrim whose smartest minds tended to be funneled out to Cyrodiil, rather than helping improving the motherland.

So Hoag encouraged his son, and Ulfric quickly became the best in Windhelm, constantly challenging the other kids to wooden weapon fights and constantly winning them through a flurry of slashes and parrys.

The only problem was that Ulfric had not wielded a sword in years, but he was sure that he would not be hindered too much. He had been studying how the other draftees were winning against Potema, and he felt he had a comprehensive battle plan.

Ulfric put himself in a stance that was almost a carbon copy of Potema's, with one foot in front of the other and the gladius hanging a little bit above the head, like a viper waiting to strike.

Ulfric pulled back, took a deep breath, and launched himself at the Wolf Queen reborn.

 _She's far faster than I expected,_ he thought, with her silver armor clearly being quite lightweight. Potema let out a series of furious thrusts, that Ulfric was luckily able to dodge. He tried to pull off the technique that the Legate did on Galmar, but she never let the young Stormcloak lock swords for more than a split second. The fight seemed impossible to win.

But then, Ulfric spotted an opening in Potema's cockiness. She kept doing a spinning move, twirling the gladius around her head. Ulfric had noticed that the other draftees became intimidated by the speed of this move, and they usually lost right after. Ulfric saw an opportunity where others saw a failure, however.

The third time Potema spun around, instead of dodging away, Ulfric went towards her and timed his sword perfectly. With a powerful upward thrust, he knocked Potema's sword straight of her hand, almost hitting Galmar standing nearby. The Legate almost fell over from the shock.

At first, she seemed almost offended that she could be so outsmarted by Nord, but she quickly dispersed those prejudiced thoughts from her mind and formed a small smile.

"Very impressive, Nord. I have never seen one of your kind work so well with a one-handed weapon, and be able to recognize such an unrecognizable opening. What is your name?"

"Stormcloak, My Legate," Ulfric said formally, not wanting to repeat Galmar's mistakes.

"Tell me, Stormcloak, where did you learn your skill?"

"I have always preferred using one-handed weapons, and my father's blacksmiths would make very high-quality swords."

"Father's blacksmiths…so you're a noble's son, eh?" Potema asked with a twinge of envy, signifying that she did not come from a very esteemed background.

 _Has no one around here even heard of the Stormcloak name?_ Ulfric thought, annoyed that the renown of his family name was less than he imagined. "Ah, yes, you could say that."

"Well, Stormcloak, though you have skill, you have much to learn. Your footwork was quite sloppy, and you lack grace. All of you have some degree of skill, but much of it is random, untrained, gained through common sense and a survival basis. You all must learn to abandon these ideals in the Legion.

"In order for this army to function, there must be a conformity in technique. We did not become the most effective fighting force in the world because we allowed everyone to use whatever sword, mace, or fucking warhammer that they wished to use. This army works because we are able to work together with astonishing coordination and attention to detail.

"Is all this clear?"

Everyone slowly nodded their heads.

"When I ask you such a question, you must respond with 'Yes, Legate!' "

"Yes, Legate." The crowd said weakly.

"Hmph. Good enough for now. You all have much to learn. Some _far_ more than others,"

Potema said, glaring straight at Galmar. "Now, go back to the New Arrivals tent to get sorted into your _contuberia._ Your formal training starts tomorrow, at 5 A.M. sharp! Be ready to do some running around the Imperial Isle. We have a War to win!"

"Gods help us," Galmar whispered to his two comarades, "because this is gonna be a long fucking week."


	7. Separation

**Chapter 6: Separated**

 _14_ _th_ _of Midyear, 4E 173_

It was midday, and the summer sun was blaring down on the camp, forcing most of the soldiers to retreat into the shade. The recruits could not obtain such luxury, however; the Legates had been pushing them to their limits these past few days, so they were running even in the insufferable heat. Between waking up at the crack of dawn and throwing javelins the weight of small children, the draftees could not catch a single break.

After jogging single file around the camp for an hour, the recruits were finally allowed a few minutes of precious rest. Surprisingly, Ulfric was at the front of the line, barely breaking a sweat, while Galmar and Rikke lagged behind. Even though the Greybeards did not do much exercise themselves, spending years in the high altitudes had given Ulfric massive lung capacity.

"How…are you….so damn fast?" Rikke said, bent over and panting.

"It's not the speed, it's all about the tactics," Ulfric responded cheekily. They paused for a few moments, everyone catching their breaths.

"Well, today's the big day," Rikke said, having recovered from her exhaustion.

"What's….big….?" Galmar ran in at the tail end, drenched in sweat. His size and bulky stature had allowed him to easily pass the strength tests, but cardio was always a struggle for the young Stone-Fist, who rarely exercised his legs.

"We're getting sorted into our _contubernia_."

"And what in Oblivion is a contubernia?"

"It's the most basic organizational unit of the Legion, usually called a squad," said Potema, walking up to the exhausted trainees. "It's led by an officer, and occupied by seven other people who will sleep with and learn to trust one another with their lives."

"So we don't just stay with the people we came with?" Ulfric asked, concerned over the idea of being separated from his friends. All the new recruits had been sleeping in a few massive tents in the middle of the complex, and even if they were a little cramped, they were never particularly bothersome. Considering that everyone would be sore and tired after a whole day of training, no one could afford to be picky with their sleeping arrangements.

"It all depends on what the Legion needs, Stormcloak. If there are certain….vacancies in a squad, then you'll be put into an already existing one. Or your squad will be made up entirely of recent draftees. I'm not the one to ask about these things, anyway, gods know the Generals don't tell me shit anyway."

"Recruits, listen up!" Shouted a voice from the Logistics headquarters, one of the few actual buildings in the complex. It was the young Imperial that had interviewed Ulfric and the others, and, having meticulously organized hundreds and even thousands of names in the past few days, he looked almost exhausted as the recruits. "Gather around, for you will now formally be assigned to your _contubernia_!"

"Perfect timing," Potema smirked.

The Imperial began to read off the squad assignments, sometimes creating new full ones, sometimes assigning one or two to an existing squad, just as Potema said they would. After a few minutes of daydreaming, Ulfric's ears pricked up when he heard his name.

"The 501st squad shall consist of: Ulfric Stormcloak! Galmar Stone-Fist! …."

Ulfric and Galmar looked at each other and smiled large grins. "Ah, thank fucking Talos! We're actually sticking together!" Galmar whispered excitedly.

Their happiness was short-lived, as the Imperial continued: "And squad 502 shall consist of Rikke Gold-Heart! …."

Rikke's eyes widened as Galmar and Ulfric looked at her in shock.

"Fucking Talos, what is this shit?" Galmar exclaimed.

"Rikke, no, we can't let this happen!" Ulfric stepped forward, and was about to walk up to the Imperial and ask for a rearrangement, but he felt a forceful pull on his arm. It was Potema, who glared at him with her cool green eyes.

"Don't you even try to question an order, Stormcloak! That'll get you in big trouble some day."

"But, Legate–"

"Just relax! Your girlfriend's not disappearing forever. Your tents are yards away, and you'll probably be fighting in the Valley."

"Girlfriend?" Ulfric exclaimed in annoyance, but quickly changed face as he realized Potema was still glaring at him.

"I don't care what your specific fucking relationship is, just stop acting like this is the end of the world! If this is what puts you over the edge, than there's no way in Oblivion you'll be prepared for what this War is gonna throw at you."

"Recruits," Potema shouted now, speaking to the whole crowd of draftees. "We're not done with today's training yet! You'll be going to your squads in the evening, so time to get ready to run some more! Break time is over."

Ulfric sighed, his legs still aching from the last run. "Yes, Legate."

* * *

"All I'm hoping for is that we don't end up with a Khajiit," Galmar said as he and Ulfric walked through the maze of tents and the masses of people, all trying to find their new squads. "They say that they cough up hairballs and shed their fur all over as they sleep."

"Who in Oblivion told you that?" Ulfric asked with his eyes narrowed. "I've definitely never heard crap like that before."

"They're fucking cats, Ulfric, it's just logical. Anyway, there's always the chance they could be traitors anyway…."

"Hm, that's true," Ulfric conceded. He knew that being so suspicious was probably not healthy, but in these trying times, it never hurt to be a little cautious, especially around races who have good reason to betray the Empire. "Well, make sure to pray for Rikke too. We don't want her getting covered in hairballs."

Finally, the two walked up to the tent marked "DI." Both of their knowledge on Imperial numerals was rusty, but they could at least figure out two digit numbers. They saw a dark-skinned Imperial man in his late thirties standing around the outside. He was dressed in a similar but slightly less lustrous silver armor set to Legate Potema's, so Ulfric assumed he was the squad leader. A few other people were already gathered around the Imperial and engaging in small talk. Ulfric saw an Argonian, another Imperial, and even another Nord, whom Ulfric vaguely recognized.

"Ah, my friends, come, come!" said the Imperial officer. "I assume you're here for squad DI? I am Vittorius, Officer Vittorius Ragadus, and I will be your squad leader."

"Greetings, Officer. I am Ulfric, Ulfric Stormcloak, son of Hoag Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." Ulfric made a slight bow, making Galmar roll his eyes; Proclaiming noble blood on the first meeting was not exactly the greatest display of humility.

"I'm Galmar. Galmar Stone-Fist, and I'm from Windhelm."

"Great to meet you, Galmar and Ulfric. Now, let's see..." Vittorius said, counting up the numbers of his squad. "This looks like everyone, so how about we all introduce ourselves for those that came around late."

"Very well, I'll begin," said the Argonian. "I am Makes-Great-Shadows, and I am from Riften." He had the typical raspy reptilian voice that most of his kind had, and his dark green skin glistened in the intense sunlight. He had two great horns jutting straight out of the top of his head, and Ulfric wondered how he would ever be able to wear a helmet.

"I'm Dres Indoril, and I hail from Windhelm." It was the very same Dres that rode with Ulfric and Galmar on the exciting cart ride. He had the typical wily build of most Dunmer, with piercing red eyes and jet-black hair standing straight up. It occurred to Ulfric that he did not know much about Dres, even though they had spent a week together. He was from the Grey Quarter, so the two never interacted in Windhelm, and the Dunmer was somewhat of a loner on the trip, not talking to anyone and preferring to stare out of the cart for hours on end.

"I'm Donus Vici, and I'm born and raised in the Imperial City," said the young Imperial. His skin was an olive brown and his hair was jet-black and groomed in the typical Nibenaean fashion, with the forehead completely exposed. He said his words with a great smile, giving off a positive and congenial air.

"A relative of the Emperor, eh?!" Said Vittorius.

"Um...yeah, you found me out," Responded Donus with a nervous laugh, clearly embarrassed that he was recognized. Ulfric faintly recognized the name from some book on the royal family he read many years ago: the Vicis were a prominent political family in the Nibenay Valley, made even more prominent by Gaius Vici taking the hand of Serena Mede. If Donus was Gaius's son, that would make him a first cousin of Titus II himself.

"I am Igmund Longsword, son of Hrofnir Longsword, Jarl of Markarth," the Nord said now, giving a small smile to the young Stormcloak. How could Ulfric forget Igmund! Even though they had not seen each other in years, they had met many times when they were children.

Jarls Hoag and Hrofnir were good friends, so they would often visit each other's palaces to discuss policy and their nagging stewards. Of course, they each had different problems, with Eastmarch having to deal with the Dunmer bandits from across the Morrowind border and the Reach having to keep the stubborn native Reachmen from rebelling against their Nord overlords, but they found their common interests nonetheless, such as their love for hunting. Igmund and Ulfric became close for a while, until the young Stormcloak started to be shipped off to the Greybeards and the visits stopped.

"Igmund!" Ulfric exclaimed as he walked over to give him a hug. "Of all the places, this is not where I expected to see you! How long has it been?!"

"Too long, my friend, too long," He responded in his distinctive West Skyrim accent (only Nords can really notice the differences).

"Well, I see we already have some acquaintances on our squad. That's great, but we have to remember that we're all a team now, and we need to learn to work together in order to be a cohesive unit," said Vittorius. "It's getting late now, so we'll get up right before sunrise to discuss our plans for the march into the battlefield tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?! But we just started our training!" Ulfric and Galmar were both a little concerned and a little excited that the action was ramping up so quickly.

"Earlier in the war the training period was two weeks, but we need every man on the front lines at this point. There's no time to be practicing sword-swinging when the Thalmor are out there burning down our villages and murdering our brothers."

"I understand, officer."

"Please, call me Vittorius," he said with a smile.

After the introductions were over, Ulfric had some time to reflect, and the main thing he noticed was the sheer diversity of his squad; the only similar thing about them seemed to be their cheap leather armor, yet here they were, bound to sleep and eat and travel and fight and die together. So this is what the Empire is all about! The fact that five different races could be on the same side, fighting for the same cause emboldened Ulfric, and made him realize that this war was not just a war for Cyrodiil; it was a war for every man, mer, and beast on the side of justice.

* * *

Night had fallen on the Nibenay Valley, and the band of twinkling stars was on full display. Masser, the greater moon, loomed ominously over the hills to the north, while Secunda the lesser moon barely peaked out from her brother's dark shadow. It was past midnight, so most everyone was in a deep slumber, save the poor souls assigned guard duty even though it was well-known that not even the desperate thief had the audacity to attack a Legion camp.

So when Ulfric and Rikke sneakily exited their tents and walked around the silent grounds, it felt like they were completely alone.

"Didn't expect to see you out here," said Ulfric, seeing his comrade a few feet away. They were both dressed in loose tunics, nightgowns generously given to them by the Legion alongside the sweaty leather armor.

"I could say the same to you. I don't know, I was just feeling so restless," Rikke responded, walking towards him. "We're heading out to the battlefield tomorrow, can you believe that?"

"Aye, I'm feeling the same as you. It still feels unreal." Ulfric sighed. "But this is quite the coincidence that we came outside at the same time. Maybe the Gods meant for this to happen."

"You have too much faith in the gods," Rikke said with a smile.

The two began to walk around the camp, observing the stillness of the night and the beauty of the stars. They began to talk of their new squads; Rikke said she liked her people well enough, with her officer being a surprisingly friendly Orc woman. A few moments of silence passed as they took in the midnight air.

"You know, Ulfric, my father was a legionnaire once," Rikke said suddenly.

"Old Tolvir?! Really?!" Ulfric could not imagine that the scrawny Gold-Heart could have ever had the muscle to be a real soldier.

"It's not like he had much of a choice: common folk don't have many chances to make it big in Windhelm, especially with the Dunmer and Argonians coming in and doing all the work for cheaper wages. My father was the sixth of seven children in a family of shoemakers, so he didn't even have a lick of inheritance to look forward to. When he came of age, he shipped himself right off to Cyrodiil."

"You never told me any of this. I guess this is why you were so eager to join me in the Legion, eh?"

"A little bit, I suppose," Rikke made a devious little smile. "I also didn't want to lose you again."

Rikke's smile quickly faded as she put on a serious face. "But….there's a reason I'm telling you this."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"After this whole War is over, and hopefully it'll turn out in our favor, I might want to….stay in the Legion." Rikke became quiet as she finished her sentence, knowing that Ulfric would not receive the statement well.

"Stay? What, what do you mean? You're going to leave Windhelm, your father? You're going to leave Galmar, and me?"

"Maybe, Ulfric, maybe! This is not a final thing, I'm just trying to think for the future. But I'm not sure."

Ulfric's agitation faded, seeing now that Rikke was just about as confused about herself as he was about himself. All he could focus on now was the present, considering he had know idea whether he would live or die. But Rikke always thought ahead, tried to peer into the future and mold it to her whim. Perhaps that was her main weakness: she worried too much about the endless possibilities of the future.

During his training with the Greybeards, concentrating one's mind on the present was the ideal as it allowed maximum focus on honing one's abilities. Ulfric saw now that Arngeir's training actually could have some use in this war, even if he decided not to use a single breath of the Voice.

"I see. I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to guilt you."

"I know, I know, it's my fault anyway. I should not have brought this up right now, we should be focusing on the tasks at hand."

Ulfric put his arm on Rikke's shoulder. "Hey. Do you remember what I promised you, what was it, twelve years ago?"

Rikke brought herself back, back to their careless childhood. Her father had only just received his new position, and so she had met Ulfric and Galmar for the first time in the halls of the Palace of the Kings. The Stormcloak boy had always had an eye on the golden-haired girl, and even though Rikke shut him out, Ulfric still persisted, trying to chase this strange feeling in his soul that he did not fully understand.

"Will you be my queen?" Ulfric would always ask, and Rikke, stubborn as she was, would always refuse. Eventually, Rikke did cave once, and the two entered a relationship as serious as one would expect from twelve-year-olds, meaning that not much occurred beyond the first kiss; Ulfric's visits to the Graybeards only helped to end the romance. Ulfric did give his new 'soulmate' one guarantee, however.

"That, someday, somehow, I will kiss you again," Ulfric said now, reminding her of that time long ago. He was shocked at himself for being so frank with his intentions, but he figured that now, right before their possible deaths, was the perfect time to do what he had always wanted to do.

"Well, I guess it's time for you to make true on that promise," Rikke said with a small blush. Ulfric was surprised at her willingness; normally she would not make herself so vulnerable. Perhaps some spark had been ignited in her.

The young Stormcloak brought her in close, his body touching hers. Ulfric was taller than Rikke, but only slightly; even so, Rikke pulled his head down and kissed him right on the lips.

The two fell into each other, caressing and kissing and breathing and moaning. Ulfric felt her warm body, her smooth skin, and he felt true bliss.

Rikke stepped on a branch, causing it to snap abruptly and loudly. "Is someone there?" the guard on night duty called out.

Rikke abruptly pushed Ulfric away, jolting him out of the moment.

"Sorry. See you tomorrow," she whispered

"Don't worry about it. See you tomorrow." Ulfric couldn't help but wonder whether she used the branch as an excuse to get out of the kiss, but he forced his mind away from such thoughts.

The two ran off to their tents, before the guard or anyone else noticed.


	8. Counterattack

**Chapter 7: Counterattack**

 _16th of Midyear, 4E 173_

Somehow, Ancano had grown to tolerate the War. Despite his distaste for blood and the constant soiling of his clothes, the young mage had become accustomed to the carnage and the chaos that came with being a mage on the front lines. But even though he had delivered the very message that started the war two years ago, Ancano hadn't received much recognition from the Aldmeri Commanders, and he was eager to prove his worth in combat.

At the very least, the Dominion had respect to their mages, seeing them as bastions of knowledge and wisdom. In the Empire's Legion, it seemed, the few mages they had were completely unskilled, only able to fling pebble-sized fireballs; some of them tried to compensate for their lack of magical prowess by wielding weapons in one hand and fighting on the front lines, a bizarre hybrid they called 'battlemages.' Elven mages, on the other hand, did not dilute their spellcasting ability with weapons, and thus were able to cast blizzards, lightning storms, and even the occasional illusional trick on the battlefield. With the combination of deadly spells and the legendary Aldmeri phalanx, the Dominion should have been able to roll over the Imperials in matter of weeks.

But they had not, and the War had dragged on for two years.

At first, none of the Altmer could understand how this stalemate was possible. The Dominion had every possible advantage: superior mages, superior archers in the Bosmer, and the element of surprise. Even the antics of the Khajiit had given the Dominion many early victories (in the heat of battle, the beastfolk were the most ferocious and terrifying of any race). Of course, they were still technically winning, especially considering they had recently captured the critical port of Anvil, but pushing into Cyrodiil's interior had proven a near-impossible task; they had underestimated the difficulty of the terrain, with the rolling hills and dense forests providing a surprising amount of cover to Legion forces. And of course, population was a huge factor: men bred like rabbits, and Cyrodiil was bigger than the entirety of the Dominion. Perhaps the men actually had a chance of winning.

But Ancano tried to forget his thoughts of defeat as he roasted a couple of villagers alive within their home. Legion resistance had been light in this town, considering it had less than than thirty inhabitants and it was lodged deep in the southern forests. And the townsfolk offered little resistance, even against the small detachment of eight Khajiit scouts, five mages, and seven infantrymen that Ancano was a part of.

Some of the village's inhabitants had had the foresight to leave for Skingrad or the Imperial City before the elves came, but others just could not bear to leave their precious decrepit homes. Ancano almost felt sorry for the people he had just killed, a man along with a women and some children who were presumably their own, but he remembered it was their own self-righteous pride that had caused them to stay. And he thought Nords were the most stubborn race.

From the corner of his eye, Ancano saw his fellow soldiers raiding another house. Loud grunts were coming from the inside, along with the soft moans of young women. The soldiers were raping the girls, a common side effect of the savage and primal urges released on the battlefield. But this rape particularly disgusted Ancano and many of the other Altmer, who tried to avoid looking through the windows.

The idea of an elf even being remotely attracted to a human was blasphemy to the entire Thalmor philosophy; the Altmer were meant to be a pure-blooded and near-divine race, and such acts of rape only drew the elves even farther away from the gods and made them just like the barbaric men they despised so much. Ancano figured that those desperate soldiers might even be court-martialed for their indecency. But what was more likely was that the higher-ups would try to quietly sweep the rape under the rug, probably by forcing the soldiers to behead the women after their intercourse. The War had turned out to be closer of a race than originally thought, so the Dominion needed as many mer as they could salvage, sinner or not.

"Human running in! Ambush!" Shouted one of the Khajiit scouts suddenly. Rustling sounds came out of the forest as arrows flew from out of the trees, hitting the Khajiit scout right through the left eye, killing him instantly. A force of about fifteen men began to run out of the forest, supported by the continued volley of arrows.

"They never let us have a damn break, do they," Ancano muttered as he ignited fireballs in both of his hands. He could see some of the men were wearing the silver armor and carrying silver shields which dispersed lightning across its surface, rendering storm spells ineffective save for the most powerful ones. Ancano's favorite spell was Chain Lightning, so he was a little sad that he had to resort to immolating his enemies rather than frying them. He had always seen fire and frost as more messier forms of destruction, while storm was clean and concise. But this was war, and he did not get to choose his poison.

"Soldiers, assemble!" Shouted Aicantar, an aging but fit High Elf and the Officer of the troupe. The rapist soldiers threw their girls onto the floor and came outside, with their shields up and ready to fight. The golden-armored infantry, six in total, lifted their massive shields up and created a single-line phalanx formation, slowly advancing towards the Imperial scouts coming out from the edge of the forest. Ancano, along with the five other mages, stood behind the line, protecting their fragile robed selves.

"Khajiit, flank the sides!" The Officer continued. The ten Khajiit, dressed in light elven armor, ran around the phalanx line and rushed towards the legionnaires, leaping on top of them with their powerful hind legs. Their sheer ferocity and speed surprised the men, leaving many of them with sliced throats and mangled bodies before they even had time to react.

With the Khajiit scattering the human line, Aicantar ordered the phalanx to charge, abandoning the tight formation and rushing straight for the enemy, while the mages unleashed a volley of flame spells. Out of the corner of his eye, Ancano saw a few legionnaires a few meters to the right, attempting to sneakily escape the bloodbath. He closed his left eye, raised his arm to just the right position, and released a ball of flame that hit a poor Breton straight in the chest. The force knocked him down to the ground as he began to burn alive, and his companions carried him away into the woods. Ancano was about to follow them, but he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Today is not a day for chase, young Ancano," said Aicantar. "We don't know how many forces they might have camping in the forest."

"Of course, my apologies," the young mage responded meekly and seemingly without malice. In reality, he was furious, his chance at glory squandered by an old geezer who thought he knew better. But Ancano knew he had to keep up appearances and not show his anger, lest he be greeted with the dreaded demotion.

In just a few minutes of fighting, five of the troupe had been lost, and the remaining soldiers already looked exhausted. Fortunately, the combination of Khajiit agility, infantry swordsmanship, and magic mastery had handed the victory to this small band of soldiers. Though they were able to kill a few of the Legion archers, most of them seemed to have run away into the woods.

"Damn bastards are getting bold now, trying to go on the offensive," said Aicantar, speaking to the crowd that had now formed in front of him. "But, as dimwitted as men are, this attack still seemed a little too bold for them." He put his hand on his chin now, looking to be deep in thought. "Ja'hira! What do you think of this?"

A Khajiit scout stepped forward, presumably the leader of the scout division. She did not look like a normal Khajiit, however: although she had the typical cat-like yellow eyes, she had no hair covering her skin except for her head, and her skin was a tan brown with marks on her face resembling tiger stripes. If any man looked at her, he would assume she was a Wood Elf, but those in the Dominion knew better, that she was an Ohmes-Raht. The Khajiit, due to their special connection to the moons, have different forms depending on what phase they are in. The stereotypical cat men are just one kind of Khajiit, albeit the most common.

"This could have been a trap, commander," Ja'hira responded in a typical raspy Khajiit voice, proving that she definitely was not a Bosmer. "A decoy, meant to lead our armies in a certain way. Perhaps they are leading us into thinking that their troops are coming from the north, where this ambush came from, when their troops are in fact to the northeast. Or, perhaps, they are attempting to scare us with an attack and make us go on the defensive instead of attacking their nearest city, Skingrad."

"Ah, of course. Excellent insight, Ja'hira! The High Justiciars were right: you really are smart, for a Khajiit."

"Thank you, Commander," she responded, forcing a smile. Ancano could see her eyes dilate, however; she was definitely offended by Aicantar's comment, but there was not much she could do. The High Elves were their 'benevolent' overlords, after all, and they could do no wrong against the less civilized races.

"Alright, soldiers, let's head back to the main camp and explain the situation to the other Justiciars," said Aicantar. "Skingrad is just a few miles outside of this forest, so be prepared to march out for a battle in the next day or so. Oh, and don't forget the bodies of your comrades."

As he lifted up the body of the Khajiit scout, Ancano felt slightly envious of Ja'hira. He was annoyed that a member of the filthy mongrel races received a compliment from an Officer before he did, even if that compliment was an underhanded insult. The young mage was determined to find his time to shine yet: he would not hold anything back in the next battle.

* * *

"Igmund, did you ever meet Galmar?" Ulfric asked.

"I don't believe I ever did," he responded, giving Galmar a hearty handshake followed by a pat on the pack. The Nords were not nearly as formal and repressed as the Imperials or Bretons, so a simple handshake was almost never enough of a greeting.

"Great to finally meet the Galmar I've heard so much about," Igmund said with a smile.

"Aye, I could say the same of you."

The three had had their morning meeting with the squad a few hours prior, where Officer Vittorius discussed the role of a squad in both open field combat and more rugged battlefields. He explained various shield formations, the meaning of certain battle commands, and the mysterious absence of the eighth member of the 501st squad. Apparently, they were to receive a "special arrival" who would be a "welcome part of the team." Ulfric was a little suspicious, but he didn't dwell on the matter.

As the three were walking around the camp, they saw a large crowd assembled around the main buildings. They tried to push to the front, to see what all the commotion was about, but they could only catch a glimpse. Legate Potema was standing in front, along with a few other Legates and a man who, judging by the ornate silver armor far fancier than any other, was the High Commander of the Legion himself, Tullius Superbus. They were conversing with two Nords, an middle-aged balding man and a younger blond girl, both dressed in an exotic black armor that Ulfric had never seen before.

"They're the Blades," he heard people whispering. He could only catch snippets of the conversation that the members of this legendary order were having with the Legates.

"So we meet again, Esbern….Of course the Grandmaster had to send you and some random girl….you damn Blades think you're above the Emperor….Mede asked for a whole squad, not the historian and a rookie! I told the Emperor that he should just use the Penitus Oculatus and not deal with you people!" The High Commander was clearly in a bad mood; though he was only in his fifties, his hair had almost completely grayed, an unfortunate side-effect of the stress on the second-most important person in the Empire.

"May I remind, you, Commander Superbus, that over fifty of our agents were murdered by the Dominion two years ago?" Esbern said, now just as agitated as the Commander. "I'm sure you remember seeing those heads rolled onto the floor of the throne room, yes? We don't have many people to spare, so you will have to make do. I have spent weeks thinking of appropriate battle plans, and my associate is more than capable in assisting me."

The Commander glared at Esbern for a long moment, before finally saying, "Very well, Blade Oakheart, would you like to give the crowd a hint of your _appropriate_ battle plans?"

"I would love to," Esbern returned with a similar amount of vitriol. "Legionnaires! I am Esbern Oakheart, and along with my partner Delphine Magnusson, we are members of the Order of the Blades."

Ulfric knew the stories; every young Nord had heard them at their bedside. The Blades were a legendary order of dragonslayers, who came over from the mysterious continent of Akavir centuries ago, wielding foreign weapons and wearing exotic armor. They tore across Tamriel, leaving death and destruction in their wake, until they met their match: Reman Cyrodiil, the Second Dragonborn. These Akaviri soldiers laid down their weapons and bowed before Reman, as he was the ultimate dragonslayer, and vowed to serve the Dragonborn and his descendants.

Of course, Reman's dynasty died out a thousand years ago, but once Tiber Septim came to power, the title of Emperor was restored again to those of the Dragonborn, until the Septims too were wiped out. Once Titus the First came to power, as an emperor without an ounce of divine power within him, the Blades almost refused to serve him. The Medes, so fed up with the stubbornness of the Blades, ended up creating an espionage agency of their own that would be completely loyal to the royal family, called the Penitus Oculatus. Despite their rebelliousness, the Blades still held an important place in the Empire, especially for operations outside its borders, while the Oculatus usually dealt with internal affairs.

"I understand that today is when you will be marching out of the Valley to support our valiant troops on the front lines," Esbern began. "We have word from our spies that the Thalmor are planning an attack on Skingrad, so we must assist in the defense of the city. You may be nervous, and maybe even terrified, and I understand such feelings completely. All I ask you is that you put your full trust within myself and your superiors; loyalty is the _most_ important element of the Imperial Legion."

"Yes, Legate!" The soldiers responded out of habit, not knowing what to call Esbern.

"Oh please, you honor me with such titles," he said with a laugh. "Now, in the next hour or so we will be marching across the Talos Bridge. Pack your belongings and roll up your tents now. Disperse!"

Esbern turned to Delphine now, who was still fatigued by the ride from Cloud Ruler Temple. They had arrived in the middle of the night, so they had barely slept.

"How was my speech?" Esbern asked with a smile.

"It was wonderful," she responded with a straight face. "But seriously, are we really heading out so damn soon? We just got here,"

"No one ever said this job was going to be easy."

"They certainly didn't," she responded with a sign.

"Oh yes, one other thing: you will be riding along with one of the squads."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"I mean you're going to become an eighth member of a squad, the 501st, I believe. Don't worry, it's simply a matter of sleeping arrangements, since there wasn't enough room in the main Legate's tent."

"So I get thrown in with the legionaries, Esbern? I thought being a Blade commanded some authority."

"Come one, it won't be so bad," Esbern said reassuringly. "The Officer is an old friend of mine, and he said they seem like a nice group of young men."

"They're all men?" Delphine asked incredulously.

"Oh, uh, I suppose they are. Sorry about that."

Delphine sighed. Of course, the Legion was not new to her; the whole reason she was able to become a Blade was because the Legates saw so much potential in her during the training sessions on the Imperial Isle. But she definitely did not enjoy the idea of being stuck in a tent of all men. She was worried they would be staring at her all night, wanting her body while she wanted nothing to do with them.

"Maybe that's a little too hopeful," she said to herself.

* * *

It was almost evening, with the long and arduous march to the front line having taken the whole day. Being one of the last-formed rookie squads, the 501st was towards the end of the queue of soldiers, all dressed up in their leather armor. They had tried to leave as early as possible, to avoid the midday sun, but the heat had hovered over them for most of the march, with the Nords of the squad especially fatigued by the hot weather.

The soldiers were walking down the smoothly-paved Imperial roads in lines of four or five, with Ulfric, Galmar, Rikke, Igmund, and Delphine taking up one line, and the rest of the 501st and 502nd right behind them. To their left, towards the border with the Dominion, were many abandoned villages now acting as bases for the Legion. Ulfric and the others would not be stopping at these towns, however; they were heading straight for Skingrad.

"So you're our eighth squad mate, eh?" Asked Galmar to Delphine, wanting to know more about the black-armored girl thrown into their group just hours beforehand.

"That appears to be the case. I'm Delphine."

"I'm Galmar. This is my friend Ulfric, my other friend Rikke, and my new friend Igmund. Always good to see more Nords around here," he said cheerily. "Where're you from?"

"Well, actually, I grew up in the Imperial City–"

"Oh, an expatriate?! I would have guessed that from your accent anyway, you sound just like an Imperial."

"Yeah, I guess so. But my family's from Riverwood, and that's where I lived till I was nine or so."

"Riverwood? I've never even heard of that place. You're a geography master, right Ulfric? What's Riverwood?"

"It's a small village, maybe an hour or so outside of Whiterun. It's a nice place, I've passed through there with my father once," he responded. "But it's a little eerie, because that ancient ruin towering over the whole town. Some Barrow, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, Bleak Falls Barrow," Delphine responded, trying to picture the landmark in her head. "It's a very old burial ground, from the First Era, but no one goes up there now."

"No respect for your ancestors?" Asked Igmund, half-sarcastically. "You know, where I come from, some of the Reachmen, crazy bastards they are, eat the corpses at funerals."

"No, it's not disrespect, it's just safety. The undead still roam around the Barrow's halls, and the only people brave enough to go near those things are bandits."

"Undead?" Rikke said with a look of astonishment and suspicion .

"C'mon, Delphine, that's the kind of crap my grandfather would tell to scare me to sleep," said Galmar. "I'm sure the dead bodies there are a little creepy, but unless there'a necromancer living there, there's no way they're walking around." The other Nords nodded in agreement.

"Well, what in the name of Azura do _you_ know about the undead?!" Exclaimed Dres with an annoyed look, walking in the line right behind the Nords and having been listening to their whole conversation. "Where my grandfather came from, ash spirits rise from the dust of the Red Mountain and murder farmers and their whole families."

"And how do you know your grandpa wasn't trying to scare _you_ to bed, Dres?" asked Galmar with a playful cheekiness.

"Enough with the idle chatter, recruits!" Shouted a Redguard Legate riding next to the line. The higher ranks in the Legion, thanks to their status, were allowed the use of horses to make the journey to Skingrad. "We've almost arrived, so be ready to listen to the other Legates about our plans."

Just as the Legate spoke, the line reached the top of the small hill the legionnaires were marching over, and from that point they could see the majestic city of Skingrad about a mile away. Perched on top of a rocky plateau, the stark grey architecture of the grand castle and temples was foreboding and menacing, a far cry from the delicate marble of the Imperial City. Skingrad, along with Kvatch, was the cultural center of the Colovians, a people who still considered themselves "Imperial," but had different customs and physical features than the dark-skinned Nibenaeans to the East.

A whole wooden complex of walkways, vantage points, and trenches had been built up all along the city's southern border. This was the Southern Front, and the legionnaires could see that there were already hundreds of soldiers spread all across the structures. There were also refugee camps to the West, mostly those who were kicked out of the Kvatch camps after fleeing the takeover of Anvil. Unlike the Imperial City, whose inhabitants continued to live as if there was no war at all, all of Skingrad's inhabitants were contributing to the war effort, whether through building up the outer defenses or giving food and aid to the soldiers.

Right beyond the Front was a flat plain spotted with numerous rock formations that extended into the deciduous forests of the West Weald about four miles south. The area in between was the No Man's Land, through where the Dominion would be marching soon enough. The tension in the area had been high for years now, as the elven armies slowly creeped through southern Cyrodiil, burning down as many villages and forests as they could, and ruthlessly murdering citizens. The legionnaires in this area had been steadily decreasing, picked off by Khajiit guerilla parties that would raid camps and run off before anyone could chase them down. If Skingrad fell, Kvatch would be vulnerable from two sides and all of Colovia would fall into elven hands.

The Legion scouts on the wooden complex could see golden armor peeking out from the forests, confirming that the Dominon had finally broken through the West Weald. It was only a matter of time before the Battle of Skingrad would begin.

* * *

 **If you're having a hard time imagining what these wooden defenses are supposed to look like, they are partly inspired by the Exalted Plains from Dragon Age: Inquisition, but without most of the menacing pikes (** **wiki/File:Exalted_Plains_ ). Essentially, these are built right outside the walls, to provide more spaces for soldiers to position themselves.**


	9. The Battle of Skingrad

**Chapter 8: The Battle of Skingrad**

 _17_ _th_ _of Midyear, 4E 173_

"Hey, Makes-Great-Shadows, could you pass me my helmet?" Asked Ulfric as he put on his boots. The 501st had been one of the squads lucky enough to sleep in one of the many inns across Skingrad that had been borrowed by the Legion. The two soldiers, having woken up a few minutes later than the others, were getting ready in the massive squad bedroom.

"Of course. You can call me Makes, by the way."

"Ah, alright, Makes." There was a pause as Makes put on his loose tunic and then the leather Legion armor over it.

"How are you feeling?" The Argonian asked.

"About the battle? Definitely nervous, but I have faith. The Divines are on our side."

"Perhaps," Makes responded, nodding his head. Ulfric had a difficult time if Makes was actually being sincere, as the facial expressions of Argonians rarely change as they speak and their voices tend to stay at a raspy monotone. "But you men worship the same gods as the elves do, do you not? How do you know they do not favor them?"

"Well," Ulfric responded, thinking for a moment about the terrifying possibility that all the gods were against them. "Even if every other god despises us, we at least have Talos on our side. He was a man once, after all, so the elves hate him anyway. Do you not believe in the gods, Makes?"

"No. We Argonians worship the Hist, the sentient trees of Black Marsh, as they gave us intelligence and life."

"The….trees? They gave you life?"

"Yes, they did. They speak to us too, you would not be able to understand what they are saying, but we can hear them. For instance, my father always said that they–"

"Hey, you two!" Exclaimed Vittorius, peeking into the tent. "The elves have assembled at the edge of the forest! We have to get to the front lines as soon as possible!"

"Of course. Apologies, Officer," responded Makes. "Ulfric, we may continue this conversation after the battle. If we even make it through, that is."

"Of course we'll make it back. Remember, Talos is on our side," Ulfric said with a smile. At this point, the young Stormcloak was unsure if he even believed in his own optimism, but there was no reason to be crippled by anxiety right before a battle.

It also occurred to Ulfric that he had never actually spoken to an Argonian in his entire life. The only Argonians even in Windhelm were the workers on the docks, where he barely went anyway. He had always assumed that the lizardfolk were insular and preferred to keep to themselves, shunning any contact with men, but Makes-Great-Shadows shattered his ignorant notions. Unexpectedly, the War had given Ulfric a greater understanding of the vast and astonishing diversity of the Empire of Man that wasn't just an empire of men.

* * *

The sun had just risen over the hills to the east, and the Dominion forces were fully exposed, lined up at the edge of the southern forest. They were distant, but Ulfric could still make out the lines of gold: these were the infantrymen, dressed in the finest Aldmeri armor and equipped with massive shields similar to those of the legionnaires. Behind them, Ulfric could see more units dressed in gold, but wielding elven bows; evidently, these were the archers, units composed entirely of Bosmer. From this perspective, the forces of the Dominion and the Empire were evenly matched; there were currently two legions,* the Nineteenth and the Twentieth, stationed on the battlefield and arranged in four lines outside of Skingrad's southern gate. Ulfric could not see exactly how many layers deep the elven forces were, however, so it was entirely possible that the legionnaires were grossly outnumbered.

As the elves slowly marched forward, the catapults could be seen moving through the trees. There were at least ten, maybe even more, but the elves were smart enough not to bring them too far forward and risk them being destroyed by the Legion's own defensive artillery. Ulfric had a front seat to the action, with the 501st being in the first line of infantry. He looked around him, seeing Vittorius to his left, Rikke next to him, and Makes to his right, and saw somber faces and stoic looks; even Galmar, who was next to Makes, had not a trace of his normal carefree demeanor on his face, showing that even he recognized the gravity of the situation. But Ulfric noticed that Delphine was completely missing from the lines. He didn't think she would be cowardly enough to desert, so perhaps she was on some espionage mission. At this point, however, it was hard to think that any spying would be of much assistance in this battle.

The infantrymen had been stationed a few yards in front of the trenches, with the idea being that, if the battle took a turn for the worst, the legionnaires would have an easy escape route by jumping back into the trenches and retreating through the complex. Ulfric looked above and behind him, and saw archers on the upper walkway of the wooden complex constructed outside the city walls, along with the Legion's few mages wearing armor over their enchanted robes. The Commanders and Legates also stood on the complex, barking orders down below, while the Officers, like Vittorius, stood with their men. Even farther up, on top of Skingrad's walls, were even more archers of all races.

The first and second lines of legionnaires were equipped with _pilums_ , long javelin-like spears that exceled at taking down cavalry and picking off elven soldiers from a respectable distance. There were no horses on this battlefield, however, as both sides knew it was foolish to attempt a charge when both sides were equipped with spears, especially on such a rocky and uneven field.

"Soldiers!" A voice shouted from above. It was Potema, fully dressed in her immaculate silver armor. "You see those golden bastards marching towards you? They are the ones that have destroyed our villages! They are the ones that have murdered our children! They are the ones that have raped our women! And now, they are here to enslave you! Will you let them?!"

"NO, LEGATE," the shout boomed, reverberating down the line. Ulfric felt himself being fired up and strangely excited for the battle. His eyes met Rikke's eyes, and they nodded at each other with little smiles.

"Long live the Empire!"

"LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE!"

"Long live the Legion!"

"LONG LIVE THE LEGION!" The legionnaires shouted enthusiastic cries, raising their spears and swords in nervous excitement. The Nords were the loudest, clanging their weapons against their shields to make a deafening sound that echoed across the battlefield.

"Archers!" Another Legate shouted. "Nock!" The archers on the lower walkways and on the upper walls both readied their arrows, with those on the walls lighting their arrows ablaze with torches.

"Fire the catapults on my signal!" Someone else shouted from above. A few moments after, a ear-piercing horn sound carried across the field, and Ulfric saw piles of flaming rock fly over his head onto the Thalmor soldiers, who had begun their full-fledged advance.

"Draw!" The archers stretched their arrows back, ready to fire. At this moment, the elven catapults began to fire their own projectiles: ten flaming balls of rock arced over the legionnaires and pelted Skingrad's walls, blowing up one of the defensive catapults and killing multiple archers. The noise was awful as stones crumbled and men screamed as they were crushed to their deaths.

"Stand up, archers, stand up!" said Legates on the walls, pulling up the disoriented soldiers from the shock of the explosions. "Loose! Loose!" The archers let go of their strings, flying their arrows above Ulfric's head towards the elves. At the same time, however, a barrage of arrows was heading straight towards the legionnaires. Ulfric couldn't believe his eyes at first, thinking that there was a rainstorm, but his heart jumped as he realized that there were so many arrows that they were almost blocking the sky.

"Fuck me," whispered Galmar, eyes wide with fear.

"Squads!" Shouted Vittorius. "Arrows incoming! _Testudo_ formation!" His words echoed down the line as Officers repeated the orders. "Don't worry about the catapults, they're aiming for the walls! Not you!"

The second, third, and fourth lines put their massive shields above their heads and the first lines places theirs straight ahead, creating a near-impenetrable formation that blocked almost all the arrows, almost resembling a tortoise's shell. Despite the sharpness of elven arrows, not one legionnaire was killed by the barrage, though some arrows did slip through the spaces between the shields and pierce some soldiers in the chest and arms. They were able to persevere, however, with the nearby legionnaires helping them stand through the pain and keep the formation.

"Forward! Push forward!" Vittorius continued, making the line march toward the elven line. Ulfric saw in his commanding Officer a fiery passion he would never had expected from his genial and friendly nature.

As the arrows continued to fly, the legionnaires began to be pelted by destructive magic. The elven line was approaching more and more closely, and right behind their own _testudo_ formation were the Altmer mages firing massive elemental blasts. One Fireball spell caused a forceful explosion a few men to Ulfric's left that knocked some of them to the ground, allowing them to be viciously mangled by arrows. Even though most of the fire was weak enough to be blocked by the shields, Ulfric could feel the heat nearly melting through the metal from the sheer amount of Firebolts. Though the Empire's mages were using their own fire spells to do work to the elven line, the Altmer clearly had more powerful and a greater number of users.

As legionnaires were knocked down and killed, soldiers walked over their bodies and filled in the spaces, making the line tighter and tighter. Ulfric found it difficult to watch his comrades murdered in front of them, even if they were only acquaintances, but he had no choice but to keep to the formation.

Once the two armies reached about a hundred meters apart, the chaos and carnage was in full force. Between the flying arrows, catapult projectiles, bolts of magic, and the booming voices of commanders barking orders, the noise was deafening. Through the din, Ulfric started to hear strange, animalistic screams he had never heard before. They were loud and piercing, almost like that of an oversized cat.

"Gods! What is that!" Ulfric heard someone say.

Leaping over the elven lines, Ulfric saw Khajiit dressed in elven battle armor and wielding elven swords, on the backs of massive great cats: they were six feet tall and eight feet long, with bright orange fur and jet black stripes. None of the legionnaires had ever seen such massive and terrifying cats, which continued their terrible growls alongside the Khajiit war cries.

Rather than bringing cavalry to the battle, the elves decided to use something a little more unorthodox and unexpected. There were at least two hundred units of these Khajiit, perhaps more, rushing towards the Imperial lines without slowing down.

"Senche-raht!" Shouted Makes to the left. "These creatures will jump right over us!"

"Jump over us!?" Responded Vittorius, dumbfounded at such a possibility. "There's no way they can get over our spears!"

Almost on cue, the Senche-raht used their massive hind legs and leapt nearly ten feet high, right onto the shields of the third line. Some of them were able to get straight over the shields, but a few were caught by the first line's spears, skewered through the stomach and chest. But most of them made it over, jumping on top of legionnaires and mauling them with massive clawed paws, with their Khajiit riders jumping down and finishing off the already disoriented legionnaires.

Ulfric and Vittorius were lucky enough to have stabbed a Senche, leaving their two pilums impaled within the poor cat, whose Khajiit rider fell to the ground and was promptly killed by a fireball from an Imperial mage. But another one leapt right over Galmar and straight onto a Redguard legionnaire in the third line, who was crushed by the weight of the giant cat. The line of the Legion began to break under this sudden shock, as it devolved into utter chaos with the legionnaires forced to turn their backs and fight the cats that leapt behind them, only to be killed by arrows and fireballs from the behind.

The Senche that killed the poor Redguard knocked down Makes and turned towards Galmar, rushing on top of him. This cat was alone, however, his Khajiit rider having been stabbed in the heart by Galmar's pilum. The Senche bared down on the Stone-Fist's sword, making Galmar's hands bloody from the force.

"Galmar!" Ulfric rushed towards his friend, his sword drawn and ready to take on the giant creature. The Senche saw him and using his front paw knocked Ulfric to the ground. It then proceeded to throw Galmar's sword to the ground and begin to try and break Galmar's leather helmet with its gigantic canines.

Ulfric was reeling on the ground, but he got his bearings and saw that the elven warriors were beginning to charge forward on the heels of the Khajiit's brutal cavalry attack. He only had a few moments to save his friend before he had to fight off a wave of soldiers with his sword. The Senche had almost cracked Galmar's skull, and he begin to let out an awful scream.

Ulfric had to use the Voice. He had no other choice. When it came to saving a life or obeying the words of Arngeir, there was no other possibility.

The young Stormcloak closed his eyes for a moment, focusing his breath. He exhaled deeply, and let the power of the dragon flow through him.

"FUS RO DAH!"

A wave of ethereal force projected from Ulfric's mouth and hit the Senche straight in the chest, sending it flying off of Galmar and right into the charging elven soldiers, impaling the cat on multiple spears. Galmar blinked a few times, his head feeling a little concussed from the fight and him a little unbelieving of what just happened.

"Gods," was all he had to say, still in shock from the encounter as Ulfric helped him get up and brace for the incoming soldiers.

"Ulfric! Galmar! Soldiers!" Shouted Vittorius. He had noticed Ulfric's bizarre voice magic and was dumbfounded by this power he had never seen before, but there was no time to ask questions. "Our line is broken! Move back! Move back towards the trenches!" Vittorius had felt beforehand that this battle would not be easy, but he didn't expect to be forced to give the order for retreat so soon. The remaining soldiers began to try and order themselves again, with most of the Khajiit chargers thankfully having been taken care of by sharpshooter archers and mages.

Rikke, Vittorius, Ulfric, Galmar, Makes, Donus, Dres, and Igmund all stood in a line now, shields out in front and swords ready for combat. They had all abandoned their pilums at this point, knowing that they would be unhelpful in close hand-to-hand combat.

"Lines behind me! Keep your shields in _testudo_! Arrows'll still be coming down!" As Vittorius barked more commands, the Altmer soldiers charged in, their golden spears pointing straight towards the battered legionnaires.

Ulfric blocked a young elf's spear jab with his shield, and then attempted to break the spear with his sword, but noticed that it was made out of a hard metal, and wouldn't budge. Unlike the Empire's pilums, which were made out of wood, the elves had a lot more resources to spare on their weapons. Ulfric and the elven soldier locked their weapons together, one attempting to overpower the other. The spear's length seemed to give the Altmer the advantage, and his tip was edging dangerously close to the Nord's chest.

Sensing an opportunity, Ulfric released his force on the spear, surprising the elf and causing him to stumble. Ulfric ducked under the spear and lunged into the soldier's chest, lodging his gladius straight in his stomach. The elf's eyes were wide, astonished that he was outsmarted by a human.

As his body slumped to the ground, Ulfric realized that the poor elf was his first kill. He had no time to reflect on it, however, as the soldiers kept on rushing in, pushing the legionnaires back towards the trenches. The elves left their spears embedded in their victims and take out their swords instead, and the battle devolved into individual combat as the tight formations broke under the pressure of so many soldiers. Ulfric heard terrible growls a few meters to the right; the Senche had overpowered the legionnaires at the east end of the line, and were beginning to surround the remaining soldiers.

Ulfric fought with a fury he didn't know he had within him. He unleashed his rage, the anger at the crimes of the elves and the brutality of this war, and gained his second kill by stabbing an elf straight through the neck, gushing blood onto Ulfric's face. The ferocity of his companions inspired him as well: Vittorius took on two elves by himself, bashing in one's face with his shield and slicing the other's arm off; Rikke screamed her battlecry as she rammed her sword straight through a Khajiit's chest; Makes sliced through three in quick succession in an astonishing display of swift swordsmanship; and Galmar completely overpowered an elf, throwing their sword to the ground and killing them from a bone-breaking knee to the chin.

But this valor was not enough to save the day as the advancing onslaught would not let up. More and more lines of infantry and mages came pouring in, leaving piles of bodies strewn across the battlefield that were so large and numerous that soldiers began to trip over them.

"Ulfric, do that magic you just did!" cried Vittorius as he was fighting off a stubborn Khajiit with an arrow in his chest. "It'll give us time to retreat!"

"I'll try," he responded. Ulfric was unsure he could use Unrelenting Force twice in such quick succession, as he had never done so before. But he tried anyway, focusing his breathing and praying to Talos in his head. Since He had been the Dragonborn, and one of the greatest Voice users in history, His blessing would surely give Ulfric the strength he needed.

"FUS RO DAH!" He released his magic straight in front of him, knocking back five elven soldiers, who knocked over multiple others in the lines. One of them even impaled himself on another's spear. Ulfric saw other elven soldiers glance at him, their faces in horror at the power of a single man.

The confusion the shout caused allowed the 501st squad and company to fend off the Altmer infantry in their section and move closer to the safety of the trenches. The legionnaires to the west side were also holding up well agains the armada, but Ulfric noticed that the legionnaires to the east continued to be slaughtered. Since they hadn't been able to fend off the Senche charge, they had to deal with the Khajiit from the side and the Altmer from the front. He noticed a few frost atronachs stomping through the lines, viciously impaling soldiers with sharp appendages. The line began to bend inward from the east, almost surrounding the entire army.

Somehow, Ulfric found a moment to breathe. He looked around him, and saw bodies everywhere. Good men, men that he had spoken to at that training camp that felt so long ago now, had their faces mangled and their limbs ripped and sliced out of their sockets and their bodies burnt to sickening crisps. He saw the elven and Khajitt bodies too, just as gruesome as the ones on his side, and he felt a little pity for all the poor souls sucked into this mess. He began to breathe heavily as he realized all the warm sticky blood coating his face and beard, getting into his mouth and utterly disgusting him. All the rage he had just a few minutes ago had evaporated, replaced with a sinking despair. Was this the vision he saw in his dream at High Hrothgar, all those weeks ago? Or was this only the beginning of a long and terrible nightmare?

"There are too many of them!" Ulfric wailed as he saw more lines of elven spearmen approaching the trenches. He watched in horror as lines of legionnaires had their throats slit by Khajiit from behind.

There was no response for a second. Then, that ear-splitting horn sound was heard again from a Legate ontop of the walls, and Ulfric noticed a large smile form on Vittorius's weary and dirtied face. "Don't worry, Ulfric," shouted Vittorius. "The battlemages will lead our charge!"

"Battlemages?"

Rushing out from the trenches a few yards to the right, Ulfric saw more than a hundred legionnaires dressed in the shiny silver armor similar to that of the Legates. Wielding gladii, they had all sorts of magic emanating from their off-hands: some were projecting wards, others fire and shock spells, others summoned flame atronachs, and others had restoration spells surrounding themselves like protective auras. Made up of all races, the Battlemages had certainly earned the title of the most diverse and disorganized unit of the Legion.

The fresh legionnaires crashed into the elven line, melting the frost atronachs with Fireballs and using Chain Lightnings to annihilate whole groups of soldiers in an instant. The ward-wielding battlemages protecting their other fighters by forming a kind of shield wall, evaporating the Altmer magic before it could even have any effect. In the midst of the battlemages' ranks, Ulfric noticed a familiar and surprising face: Legate Potema, leading the front of the charge with a gladius and a fire spell in her left hand, creating devastating explosions left and right. She certainly never seemed like the type to be so proficient in magic.

"Charge!" Shouted Vittorius and the other Officers around him. Ulfric, Galmar, and the others let out battlecries of triumph as they rushed back into the fray, pushing back the staggered elves. At this point, Ulfric's despair had been replaced with sheer determination, a willingness to simply get the job done and finish off the enemy with all his power. He wasn't filled with rage, nor was he divinely inspired. He forgot all outside forces as he immersed himself in the battle, cutting through the faceless Altmer and Khajiit with his comrades.

An Altmer mage a few lines back conjured a frost atronach right in front of the 501st, its massive clear shape almost instantly appearing out of a portal from Oblivion. Vittorius was about to lunge right into the creature's center when he was hit by a random Ice Spike, leaving a ghastly wound through his arm and forcing him to drop his sword in agony.

"Vittorius!" Ulfric pushed his Officer out of the way just in time to block the atronach's arm with his shield. This creature was much stronger than any elf that Ulfric had faced down, and he was struggling to keep himself from being crushed under its weight. Thankfully, Dres came to the rescue, slicing the atronach's spiky tip off in one clean maneuver.

"Finish it off, Ulfric!" He screamed. Ulfric knew the perfect way to do so. Even though he had begun to feel the fatigue of Voice overuse, even feeling slightly dizzy, he knew that it was the best way to deal with the creature before anyone others were hurt.

"YOL TOOR SHUL!"

Hot fire spewed from Ulfric's face in a rapid streamline, hitting the atronach and completely melting it in a millisecond, its essence disappearing from the battlefield and leaving behind a pile of daedric dust.

* * *

The battle did not last long afterwards. The surprise of the battlemages was enough to push the remaining Dominion troops back into the forest, almost to the border with Valenwood, and most of their siege equipment was destroyed by Skingrad's defensive artillery. Once Ulfric and the other legionnaires had reached the catapults at the edge of the forest, taking the remaining elves and Khajiit back into the city walls as prisoner and giving the injured like Vittorius to the medics for treatment, Commander Superbus came riding out on horseback and declared the battle a victory for the Empire.

A wave of relief washed over Ulfric as the soldiers cheered at their victory, throwing their arms up into the air and hugging each other in ecstasy. After years of hearing about nothing but loss and retreat, this moment was perhaps the first time in the entire war where it felt like there was a possibility of victory.

"Gods, I never thought we would get this fucking far!" Galmar said with a massive smile as he gave Ulfric a hearty embrace. "You saved my life, Ulfric, you goddamn bastard! So that's what the Greybeards were teaching you all this time!"

"Yeah, all that training ended up being useful after all." responded Ulfric. "I'm just glad you're alive."

It was midday now, with the insufferable summer sun beating down on the soldiers; in the span of just a few hours, Ulfric had gone from hope to despair to triumph, and he felt forever changed by what he witnessed on the battlefield. Of course, he already knew that war would not be as glorious as it was portrayed in the Nord legends, but he expected to feel at least some satisfaction from his efforts. Although he was happy, he did really not feel so because of his exploits of his combat, more so because of the shared relief with his comrades in arms. Perhaps he still felt guilty about using the Voice in combat, as satisfying as it was. Or maybe he remembered the lifeless bodies of the elves, realizing that they were people just like him, with hopes and dreams beyond this terrible war.

Ulfric made the rounds, giving Makes a good pat on the back and giving a warm hug to Rikke; he almost kissed her, but thankfully she stopped him, realizing that this moment was not the best time. Dres even acknowledged his efforts, giving the first smile that Ulfric had ever seen out of him.

"Nice job out there, Stormcloak. Especially against that atronach, I've never seen magic like that. It looked like you were breathing the fucking fire."

"Thanks, Dres, you did great too. That fire back there was my specialty," Ulfric responded cheekily. He felt that the stubborn Dunmer might really be warming up to him.

As the exhausted legionnaires walked back towards the city in disorganized crowds, Igmund ran up to Ulfric.

"Ulfric, I saw that….power you used on the battlefield. You…you used your voice, right?" He sounded almost nervous, in awe from what he saw out of the young Stormcloak.

"Oh, yes..." Ulfric was unsure how to respond.

"You never told me. You're…you're the Dragonborn."

"What!" Ulfric said in astonishment. "No, no, no. I studied with the Greybeards, Igmund. They taught me the ways of the Voice. I'm sorry I never told you, I should have told you before."

"Oh, I see. No, it's no problem," Igmund said, sounding almost disappointed that his friend wasn't the mythical hero of legend. "Well, that's still amazing. That magic's just as powerful as anything that those mages can spit out of their hands."

"Yes, I would be inclined to agree," said a menacing voice next to Ulfric. It was Potema, having seemingly appeared out of nowhere. She was still covered head to toe in blood, looking almost monstrous in her fury.

"Legate Potema!" said Ulfric cordially but nervously. "I….had no idea you were a mage, you were absolutely amazing!"

"Why, thank you. In fact, I had no idea _you_ were a mage as well, Stormcloak." She glared straight at Ulfric with those piercing green eyes, scaring even Igmund.  
"Ah…" Ulfric tried to find the right words.

"Were you aware that hiding your magical ability from the Legion is a serious crime that can cause a court-martial? Did you think I wouldn't notice? All around me I heard soldiers talking about the 'Nord who knocked over a whole squad of elves with his voice' and 'melted an atronach with a single breath like a dragon.' It was mostly the Nords, go figure. They led me straight to you."

"Legate, I apologize, but it's not really magic–"

"Not really magic? Is that the best excuse you can come up with? Come on, you have some explaining to do. To the Commander, that is," Potema put on a devilish smile.

"Legate, please, he's the Dragon…." Igmund attempted to reason with Potema, but realized it was a wasted effort.

Ulfric was sweating profusely now, almost as anxious as he was before the battle; his entire career as a soldier was about to be cut short, simply because he was too stubborn to tell the Legion that he could push people over with his voice.

* * *

 ***A "legion" with lowercase letters is an organizational unit in the greater Imperial Legion. Each legion is made up of about 5,000 men, and there about 30 in total.**


	10. Recovery

**Chapter 9: Recovery**

 _17_ _th_ _of Midyear, 4E 173_

As the Legates rode through the city gates to proclaim victory, Skingrad entered a state of jubilation. The citizens cheered and hugged each other, relieved that the threat of the Dominion was finally gone after having been trapped for so many months. The archers on the ramparts threw down their weapons and ran into the local taverns, where the bartenders passed out drinks free of charge. The soldiers from the battlefield marched back into the city, creating massive crowds in the streets as the fighters mingled with the common folk. For now, the Legates had given up on disciplining the rowdy soldiers for the disorganized mess they were creating; today was their day to celebrate, and even the strictest of Officers understood the need for the legionnaires to enjoy life for at least a short while.

In the midst of this excitement was Potema Brutio, pushing along a worried Ulfric Stormcloak into the bustling crowd. He considered running into the city, but he knew that the Legion would find him anyway. Clearly, Potema didn't think that Ulfric would even try to run away, given the lack of handcuffs or any restraint.

Some of the soldiers recognized the young Stormcloak from the battlefield, whispering wide-eyed about 'the shouter.' They had seen Ulfric push an entire elven squad to the ground and melt a frost atronach with just his voice. Especially amongst the Nord legionnaires, rumors of a 'Dragonborn' had already begun to spread.

Seeing Commander Tullius riding into the city with the legionnaires, Potema grabbed Ulfric by the arm and brought him in front of the leader of the Legion.

"Commander!" she shouted out.

"Legate Potema! Excellent job out there! You are truly one of the Legion's best," Tullius responded, looking happier than anyone had ever seen him.

"Commander, I'm sorry to bother you, but I have here a soldier who has hidden his magical ability from the Legion."

"Ah." Tullius's expression immediately darkened, his face putting on a small frown. "Well, that is unfortunate that a soldier would have the gall to sabotage their own countrymen by hiding their abilities." He got off his horse, and walked up to Ulfric, staring straight into the young Nord's eyes. The Commander was tall for an Imperial and slightly taller than Ulfric, intimidating the young Stormcloak who was used to being the tallest person in the room.

"But, Legate, why are you addressing me about this? You know you can court-martial him yourself, don't you?"

"Well, Commander, the truth is that I wish to avoid a court-martial." Ulfric's face lit up at Potema's response. "So she is trying to save me!" he thought. That Potema actually believed in him was a welcome thought.

"His magic is….special. I saw it on the field, it was unlike anything I had ever seen. He's a competent warrior, and I believe we can use his power, and plan around it."

"Special? What is so special about it, Legate?" exclaimed Tullius in a skeptical tone. "Magic is magic, is it not?" A crowd had begun to assemble around Ulfric's trial. A court-martial had not yet occurred amongst this batch of recruits, so they were curious to see what would happen. The Nords listened especially closely; many of them were lower-class, the sons of farmers and vendors, so families like the Stormcloaks were royalty to them and were intensely respected. In attendance were Rikke, Galmar, and Igmund, all nervously waiting to see what would happen to their friend.

"Well, I'm not entirely sure myself. Stormcloak, would you like to explain your ability to the Commander?" Asked Potema, turning towards Ulfric. From her tone, Ulfric could tell that refusing was not an option.

"Stormcloak, eh?" Interjected Tulius. "So you're the Prince of Windhelm? I was under the impression that you Nord nobles were sitting out this war, letting your peasants do the fighting?"

"I care about the Empire, Commander," responded Ulfric.

Tullius chuckled. "Ha, excellent, excellent. It's good to know that there is at least one patriotic Nord. But, Legate Potema," Tullius turned, facing the dark-skinned Legate. "Magic is not exactly popular amongst Nord nobility, so I quite doubt this man is your culprit. I _sincerely_ hope you are not wasting my time."

Potema turned red-faced, and for the first time Ulfric saw her in a position of weakness. Tullius seemed to have such an effect on people, putting them underneath him simply though his presence. Potema stuttered through a response, but Ulfric interrupted.

"If you would please let me explain, Commander."

Tullius sighed. "Very well."

"You see, it's not magic in the traditional sense. We call it the Voice. It was the power of dragons, in ages past. I learned it from the Greybeards, on the top of the Throat of the World. But it is _not_ a violent power, or at least it's not meant to be."

"Well, you used it on the field, did you not?" Tullius asked rhetorically. "And anyway, I've never even heard of this 'Voice' power. I've certainly never seen a single person use it. Now come on, if you're trying to cover up your magical ability with fiction, simply confess and perhaps we can compromise and we can move you to the Battlemage legion."*

There were various murmurs from the Nords in the crowd over the Commander's ignorance about the Voice. "How has he never heard about the Voice?" "Of course the smartass Imperial has never read a single word of Nord history in his life." "Some smart Commander he is." None of the soldiers were brave enough to speak up, however.

"It seems you haven't read up on your history, Commander," shouted a deep voice from the back of the crowd. The soldiers created passage for the man as he walked up to Tullius. A wave of relief washed over Ulfric as he saw it was Esbern, followed by Delphine, apparently having returned from their scouting mission with the Penitus Oculatus.

"Blade Oakheart," said Tullius in a sarcastic monotone. "You question my knowledge of history."

"Yes, in fact." A few legionnaires chuckled at Esbern's quip, infuriating the Commander. "As Chief Archivist of the Blades, it is my job to know every scrap of the historical record: The Voice is real, very real, though the ancient dragons called it the _Thu'um_. Since, of course, they couldn't use their hands for magic, they used their powerful voices to cast all sorts of spells. Now, I hope you know the bare minimum about Nord history, that we were enslaved by the dragons in the Merethic Era, yes? Eventually, the Divines grew tired of the dragons' reign of terror, and so Kyne, or you might know her as Kynareth, gifted men the power of the dragons to take them down.

"And so they did: using their destructive powers, the Nords carved out the largest empire of the First Era. But in doing so, they committed untold atrocities in the name of conquest, and used the Voice only to advance their own lust for wealth and greed, just as the dragons had done. The Dunmer and the Dwemer, tired of dealing with the violent men at their borders, united together and utterly destroyed the Nordic army at the Battle of Red Mountain, causing their empire to shrink to a fraction of its former self.

"The Greybeard Order was founded by Jurgen Windcaller, a warrior who had fought at Red Mountain and looked for an answer as to why the Nords fell so far. He realized that the destruction of their wealth was a consequence of their misuse of the Voice: Kyne had punished them for their misdeeds. Since then, the Greybeards have been the sole users of this power, only using it to further their connection to the gods. There are exceptions, of course, namely with the Dragonborns such as Reman Cyrodiil and Tiber Septim, as they are given the power by Kyne herself to accomplish a certain goal in the world."

" _Of course, it was Tiber Septim's power,"_ whispered Tullius to himself, feeling foolish for not remembering his history.

"He's the Dragonborn!" shouted a Nord legionnaire in the crowd. Suddenly all the Nords began shaking their fists in the air, excited at the possibility of a legendary hero in their ranks. "Yeah, what if he is the Dragonborn!" "The Dragonborn, among us!" "Talos has returned!" "Talos will win the war, destroy the elves!" Igmund, Galmar, and Rikke, knowing the origin of Ulfric's power, attempted to shout the truth but were drowned out.

"I'm not the Dragonborn!" exclaimed Ulfric at the top of his lungs, silencing the raucous Nords. "I trained with the Greybeards, and learned their power over many years! I have not been blessed by Kyne or Akatosh or anyone! I am just a man!"

The crowd quieted down to a few murmurs, disappointed that the young Stormcloak was not a hero of legend.

After a moment, another voice shouted out. "Show us! Show us your power!"

"Yes, show us, show us!" the soldiers joined in, chanting again.

"Yes, Stormcloak, please show us your power," said Commander Tullius. "After all this ruckus, we don't even have proof that you have this Voice."

"Very well, Commander. You'll have to give me some space, everyone." Ulfric inhaled, focused his mind, and unleashed a breath of fire straight into the air above him, letting the soldiers feel the intense heat. Ulfric was able to keep the fire flowing for a few seconds, proving that he was not performing a simple parlor trick. Tullius stared wide-eyed, and there was a collective gasp as even soldiers walking nearby turned to look at this astonishing power.

"Gods almighty….," whispered Tullius. Everyone quieted down as they expected the Commander to respond. After a few moments of thought, he did so: "Ulfric Stormcloak, son of Hoag Stormcloak, your…transgressions are hereby forgiven. I believe this magic of yours could be of use to the Legion; besides, we are in no position to get rid of soldiers when we are in such desperate times."

Ulfric put on a great smile. "Oh, thank you very much, Commander."

"You and Blade Oakheart said something about the Voice not being used for combat, right? Well, I call on you to use your powers in combat. That is a direct order, tradition be damned."

"Yes, Commander!" Ulfric responded. Of course, he felt a little uneasy, but as long as he was using the Voice to protect his comrades and save the Empire, and not for any selfish means, he was sure that the Divines, and Arngeir, would approve.

"Alright, the whole lot of you, what are you doing still standing around!" Tullius shouting, now addressing the crowd. "Disperse! Celebrate your victory tonight, and in the morning we will be back to business as usual!"

"YES, COMMANDER!" Shouted the soldiers as they began to walk away to the various bars and inns of Skingrad.

"Legate Potema," said Tullius. "I put Stormcloak under your care. You may assess whether he should join the Battlemages, and study how to incorporate his skills into our formations."

"Of course, Commander. I will not let you down."

As Tullius began to walk away, he stopped and turned around to Esbern. "Oh, and Blade Oakheart. Research anything you can about this Voice. I believe a history lesson would be very useful to improve young Stormcloak's powers."

"Of course, Commander!" Esbern said with a cheeky smile.

As the soldiers began to go about their ways, a short blond Nord said "all hail the future Jarl!"

Ulfric's could hardly believe his ears. Some of the Nords he met had called him Prince out of respect before, but now he was being called out as a true noble in front of hundreds.

"All hail the future Jarl!" shouted another Nord. Soon, all the Nords, and even a few other men began to join in. Ulfric could have sworn that he heard someone else say "all hail the Dragonborn!"

Ulfric decided to play to the crowd. Focusing his breath, he unleased an Unrelenting Force into the air, shouting "FUS RO DAH" to the heavens. The Nords cheered, waking up the entire town.

"Hear that?" Said Galmar, giving Ulfric a jab in the shoulder. "You're a _Jarl_ now!"

* * *

It was late in the evening now, and the drunken celebrations were beginning to die down. The soldiers had been dancing in the streets for hours, sharing in their victory no matter their race.

As the city entered a deep silence, Commander Tullius called a meeting within Castle Skingrad, the home of the Count situated just outside the north walls. As with most of the structures in the city, it was grey and imposing, with tall, sharp spires and tiny windows like a prison. The inside was ornate and homely, however, as if the rulers of Skingrad wanted to disguise their wealth by making the façade as intimidating and unappealing as possible.

Within the small council room, various officials were present at the round table: the Redguard General Darius Nazari, who was second-in-command of the forces in Skingrad; six senior Legates including Potema; three members of the Penitus Oculatus; and Blades Esbern and Delphine. The young Count of Skingrad, Marcus Hosidus, was also in attendance, eager to learn what the Legion had in store for the continued defense of his city. Having only become Count just a year earlier at the age of twenty-five after the death of his father, Marcus had much to learn about leadership, and he remained anxious throughout the night despite the great victory. There was still a massive elven army in Anvil, after all, one that was slowly marching east towards Kvatch and the rest of Colovia.

"Commander, Blades, Count, and others," began the General, who was in charge of the general debrief. "I shall start off by acknowledging our decisive victory on the battlefield today. Through sheer strength and willpower, we were able to avoid a protracted siege by decimating the Dominion forces in just a few hours. Particular acknowledgement should be given to Legate Potema Brutio, whose 3rd Battlemage Legion led the final charge against the Dominion and displayed masterful courage and strategy."

"I only did my duty, General," responded Potema with a nod.

"Of course, Legate," responded Darius in a very official manner. "And with this victory, we also learned valuable information about the enemy, mainly about the formation of their Khajiit forces. The large cat creatures they were riding are the fabled 'Senche-raht,' a form of Khajiit that has never been seen outside of Elsweyr. Now that we are aware of their use in combat, we can begin to come up with tactics against them, as they are not susceptible to the same weaknesses as normal cavalry.

"Moving on, the joint operation with the Blades and the Oculatus was a minor success. They were able to find the Dominion camp and disrupt their recovery capabilities by burning down their tents. Even though they were not able to capture any enemies as the plan had initially desired, the discovery of their camp allowed our infantry to root out the other Dominion hideouts right after the battle's conclusion. Their army is almost certainly back across the Valenwood border by now."

"Excellent work all around. Thank you, General," said Tullius. Now, we must consider the future. Firstly, I see an opportunity to go on the offensive."

"On the offensive?" exclaimed Count Hosidus with a nervous look on his smooth face. Dressed in dark noble's clothes, he looked quite out of place in a room where everyone else was wearing silver and black military uniforms. "Commander, surely you can't be serious? Who will defend Skingrad if all the soldiers go marching into Valenwood? Do you understand the anxiety that myself and the citizens of this city have felt in these long months, surrounded by elven forces–"

"Count Hosidus, please, you worry too much," interrupting Tullius. The fact that he could even interrupt such a high-ranking figure without a single objection was proof of the authority that the Commander held. "Of course I don't plan on sending all the soldiers; the idea would be a two-pronged assault, one towards the south across the border and another to the west towards Anvil. The battle for Anvil was hard-fought, so the elves there are probably quite weak and battered, ripe for the taking. Here, Legate Valtus, could you pass the map so I can draw it out for the Count."

Just as Tullius was about to make markings on the map of Cyrodiil, a servant burst through the doors of the council room. "Count Hosidus, Commander Tullius, there are soldiers from Kvatch with news for you."

"From Kvatch? Is it so urgent? I was just about to show the Count something of utmost important," responded Tullius.

"It seems so, Commander. The men looked desperate."

"….Very well. Let them in." The Legates began to murmur to each other. What had happened in Kvatch?

A ragged Imperial entered the tent, his leather armor bruised and dented. He looked absolutely exhausted, and his arm was wrapped up in a bandage soaked through with blood. A quiet, nervous tension gripped the room as everyone feared the worst.

"Commander….Kvatch….has been taken." He struggled to speak between rasped breaths. "The elves' army….it was massive, far bigger than what the 17th legion could handle. I was able to escape along with a couple squads just as they breached the front gates."

Only the soldier's breathing could be heard as the shock passed through the room, with the Count turning white with fear. Even the famously loud-mouthed Potema could not find any words, her mouth gaping in astonishment.

"They played us," said Tullius after a few moments. "The damn knife-ears outsmarted us. We put all our focus on Skingrad, and they swiped Kvatch under our noses."

"Commander, if I may speak," said Esbern with a sad demeanor. "This is a failure of intelligence. Our agents should have been able to see this coming–"

"Ours too," interrupted Marius Maro, one of the Penitus Oculatus members present. In his thirties with dark black hair and a thin beard, he had risen quickly through the ranks of the organization and now had the authority to speak for the other agents. "We are the ones most responsible for affairs within the Empire's territory, so we should take the most blame here."

Tullius sighed. "I appreciate your humility, Blade Oakheart and Agent Maro, but self-pity helps no one. We have a crisis on our hands, and we have to come up with a new plan at this instant."

There were a few more moments of silence as everyone racked their brains for a solution. Esbern was about to speak, but Delphine spoke first.

"For now, Commander, all we can really do is shore up Skingrad's defenses and make sure that this city is impenetrable. Today, we were able to combat them on an open field, but I don't think that will be such a smart idea next time when they have their combined forces assaulting the walls. We must prepare for a siege."

The others nodded their heads in agreement. Tullius was surprised at the young Blade's bravery to propose such a critical battle plan. Esbern had told him great things about her, those words seemed to have some merit.

"I agree, Blade Magnusson. I must say I am very impressed with your abilities."

"Thank you, Commander," she responded confidently. Delphine had felt a pang of guilt for not being able to fight at the Battle of Skingrad alongside her newfound Nord comrades, but at least she had done something worthwhile.

"Now, Count Hosidus," said Tullius. "What do you think of Blade Magnusson's proposal? As the highest ranking authority here, you have the final say." Of course, in reality, Tullius could go forward with whatever plan he wanted and nobody would oppose him, but he wanted to humor the Count at least a little bit, if only not to make him seem like a young weakling who had no idea what he was doing.

To Tullius's surprise, Marcus Hosidus had not become more distressed by the recent news, but he appeared to have gained more resolve. "Commander, this city has suffered many atrocities during its sixteen centuries of existence. We have invaded by Nords, invaded by Bretons, invaded by Redguards. We have been destroyed, five times! We even had a damn vampire as our count for decades!"

"A vampire count?" Whispered Delphine to Esbern.

"Oh yes, it's a great story. Remind me to tell you about it later."

"So, Commander, I will do whatever it takes to save my city," the Count concluded.

"Excellent, excellent! Now, it appears to be almost midnight. I apologize for calling such a late meeting, but I did not expect things to become like this so soon. Meeting adjourned, we shall convene in the morning when we have had adequate rest and come up with a more formal battle plan. I shall send a messenger to the Imperial City right this moment, as the Emperor must know of what is going on."

"Commander, I will tell the wall guards to be extra vigilant in case the elves decide to attack….prematurely," said Agent Maro.

"Yes, please do so. Oh, and to everyone else: please do not inform our soldiers of Kvatch's takeover just yet. They have just spent an entire night reveling in our victory; better to ruin their day than their sleep."

Delphine laughed, astonished how the Commander could keep such a humorous demeanor when everything seemed so grim. Perhaps that was his strength: besides his indomitable will and his intimidating stare, he knew how to respond to the needs of his soldiers. Legionnaires had always joked that Quintus Tullius was the real leader of the Empire, and now, Delphine thought she understood why. Fitting that he was the Emperor's cousin.

"And Commander, if I may have a final word," said Esbern. Tullius nodded. "I must emphasize that we should not lose hope yet. The elves are a prideful people, and they do not handle defeat as well as they do. They will take a long time to try and discover what went wrong at Skingrad, so that will buy us plenty of time. Please emphasize this to your soldiers when you tell them about our loss of Kvatch. The Empire has come back from worse."

* * *

Ancano snapped his eyes open, letting the blinding morning light hit his face. He had absolutely no idea where he was and what he was doing; he could barely remember who he was. He had thought he was on the battlefield, fighting to take over Skingrad. But now, he was laying on a rudimentary stretcher, half underneath a small tent that appeared to contain various medical tools on tables above him.

As he tried to figure out his surroundings, he realized a beautiful Altmer lady hovering over him. She was young, probably about Ancano's age, with long eyelashes on her almond-shaped eyes and glistening blond hair tied in a ponytail. She wore a short white dress, the uniform of the Dominion's Healers. Ancano tried to get up from whatever he was laying on, but felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder that grew worse as he rose.

"Oh, you're awake," said the girl in a worried tone. She put her arms on Ancano's back and eased him into lying back down again. "You have an injury, so you shouldn't be getting up right now. I've been healing it through the night but the arrow left a nasty cut."

"Arrow?" Said Ancano, wincing through the pain. "Wha….what in Oblivion…"

"Don't worry though, it didn't go too deep, and it missed your arm so you'll probably be back to casting spells in just a few days." Her voice was smooth and melodic, soothing Ancano's tense nerves. This girl was the type that he would marry when he got back to Summerset, Ancano thought. He also noticed her large breasts, enticing him even more. But marriage was not a simple act of love among the Altmer; there were questions of social standing and caste, and Ancano had none, having been a lowly orphan picked up from the street. Perhaps this girl was just like him, but perhaps not. All the more important, then, that he prove himself in this war and gain the standing he had coveted for his entire life, which would allow him to choose any woman he pleased.

"You know, you're lucky to even be here, alive," she continued as healing light began to flow out of her hands and onto the gash. Ancano's senses began to come back to him as he more clearly recognized his location. They were in a large clearing in the middle of a forest, with a dozens of injured soldiers writhing around on other makeshift stretchers. Healers were frantically running back and forth between the dying and the dead, healing amputated stumps and covering those that they could not save in pure white blankets.

Ancano saw some of his mage friends beside him. Well, perhaps 'friends' was a strong word: he felt no love for the rich Altmer who made it into the arcane universities thanks to their noble titles and not due to any inherent skill. They had always looked down upon Ancano, calling him 'street scum' and all sorts of names they found so clever. But Ancano persisted, rising above his classmates, rivaling even some of his professors.

It was he who delivered the message of war to the Emperor himself, after all. Not some imbecile chid of a lord! The glorious leader of the Dominion himself, Lord Naarifin, had taken the young Ancano under his wing, teaching him the ways of the nobility and of the magical arts. Of course, Ancano had not seen him in months, but that was because he was doing important work in southern Cyrodiil, pushing towards the Imperial City.

"This war is an opportunity, dear Ancano," Naarifin had told him, putting his arm around the young elf and making him picture the possibilities in his mind. " _Your_ opportunity to show the world your potential. Summerset will become yours for the taking! As my apprentice, I have given you a head start, but it is up to you to claim your noble title and truly become part of the elite, as you have always dreamed!" The grand Lord always had such a way with words.

All of this was why Ancano found it so infuriating to be confined to lying on the ground for the forseeable future. And judging by his surroundings, the Dominion had lost the battle. A wave of anger washed over the young elf; how was he supposed to prove himself in this state?

"What the fuck happened to us?" Ancano spat out, clenching his teeth as he felt the skin tear and repair itself thanks to the Restoration magic. He had never thought that healing would be so unpleasant.

"To the army, you mean?" replied the elven girl. "Well, I wasn't on the field, but we were…defeated. Apparently, their battlemages killed half our soldiers. Oh, it was so horrible, those filthy Men overran our camp, burning everything and slaughtering the healers…" she paused for a moment, trying to forget the bad memories.

"We're back across the border now, in Valenwood. That Ohmes Khajiit carried you to us on her back." The healer motioned behind her, to Ja'hira, who was speaking to a few other Khajiit. She had a bandage over her arm, but other than that, her brown body was clean of any blemishes or bruises and her orange face markings gleamed across her face.

"Ja'hira! Come over here, your mage friend has woken up!"

"Ah, Niranye!" responded the Khajiit, walking over to Ancano's stretcher and giving the elven girl a light hug. "Wow, your magic is amazing…he was barely breathing when I brought him back here."

"Your name's Niranye?" said Ancano. "That's a beautiful name. I'm Ancano."

"Oh, thank you, Ancano," Niranye responded with a beaming smile. Gods almighty, she was attractive. "Well, I'll let you talk to Ja'hira a little bit. I have to go tend to the other injured."

Ancano wished that the beautiful girl would stay with him a little longer. He didn't really wish to Ja'hira; the truth was, he felt embarrassed that he had to be saved from death like a damsel in distress (by a Khajiit, no less).

"How, are you feeling, my friend," asked Ja'hira, sitting down on the chair at Ancano's bedside.

"Well, besides the fact that I was taken out minutes into the battle, our army was annihilated, and our camps were destroyed, I'm feeling perfectly fine."

Ja'hira chuckled. "I understand how you feel, Ancano. You know, I've always liked you more than the other mages. I know I haven't talked to you much, even though we're often in units together, but just from what I observed, you seem so humble. The other Altmer always act like they know the answers to everything, you only open your mouth when you actually know the answers. Humility is not something easily found among your kind."

Ancano was shocked, both at this unexpected compliment and at Ja'hira's near perfect grasp of the Altmeri language. She spoke as if she was a native speaker, while most other Khajiit had to speak in broken phrases. He had thought that their facial structures made mouthing such a beautiful language as High Elven difficult for the cat-men, but clearly the Ohmes were different.

But anyway, someone thought of him as humble? That certainly was not his intention, but he simply thought it illogical that someone should act as if they know everything. If there was anything Lord Naarifin taught him, it was that listening to others was just as important as listening to oneself. Even though the great Lord was technically head of the Thalmor and commander of its military forces, the government was still a council, with multiple Lords and Ladies that all had to confer with one another to get anything done. The High Elves had done away with their kings and queens, and in doing so, had created a far more efficient form of government that was not based on the whims of one person.

"Why, thank you for the kind words, Ja'hira. I suppose I should thank you for saving my life as well." The gratitude was difficult for Ancano to deliver, but he wanted the Khajiit to continue to have a good impression of him.

"Please, I was only doing my duty."

"Now, I was just wondering….what exactly happened to me?"

"Ah, well, I'm not entirely sure, to tell you the truth. Us scouts, we're not on the front lines, right? So we were hanging back near the catapults, and the generals order us to charge in and support the main infantry. We rush in with our shields up, and it looks like we're winning, with the Senche riders charging into the mens' lines and tearing them up. But…." Ja'hira paused, holding back tears. Clearly she had lost some close comrades in the battle.

"Then the battlemages charged?" said Ancano, finishing her thought.

"Yes, then the battlemages came in. We were not expecting them to be so…skilled. Not only could they aim their spells, but their swordsmanship was terrifying. After a few minutes, I realized this was a losing fight, so as leader of my squad, I ordered everyone to retreat. And then I saw you. Lying on top of a dead mage, you had an arrow in you and still holding on to life. I hoisted you onto my back and somehow survived the hail of arrows and fireballs. I was almost knocked over by that….Shouter."

"Shouter?"

"Oh, no one's told you about him yet? He's all anyone can talk about in the camp. He's the most powerful battlemage of them all, and he's a damn Nord."

"What in Oblivion did he do?"

"He didn't even use his hands, Ancano. He just shouted something and this wave came out of him, knocked over an entire squad of elves. He melted a frost atronach with some kind of dragonfire spell. Almighty _Alkosh_ , it was terrifying. My friend…my dear Kharjo was…was…" Ja'hira could hold back her tears no longer.

"Gods," was all Ancano could say. A few moments passed and Ja'hira wiped her face.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't be getting so emotional."

"Oh, never mind that. But, Ja'hira, I don't quite understand…you're saying he casted things without using his hands? Are you sure you didn't see this Shouter incorrectly?"

"I stared straight at him, Ancano. Everyone around me saw the same thing: he was holding a sword in one hand, and a shield in the other, and he still was able to do these things…thankfully, he's the only one of those round-ears that could do that, as far as we know."

Ancano was amazed. A man who could do things that the most powerful Altmer mages struggled to do? And he was a fucking Nord! The most ignorant race in Tamriel! The people that made the Bosmer look like scholars! How was this possible?

"But, I am sorry to make your thoughts so negative," said Ja'hira. "Not everything went to crap yesterday. We just got word that our armies from Anvil captured Kvatch."

"Really?! Well, that is glorious news!" So all was not lost after all. Once Ancano's wounds were healed, he would be getting right back into the action. And now he knew exactly how he could gain that noble title he had always desired.

"Ja'hira, I know a task that can gain us much renown in the army: finding this Shouter, and hunting him down," he said with an almost sinister smile.

"Well, that sounds like a great idea, but difficult to accomplish. We don't even know who he is."

"Espionage, Ja'hira! You're a scout, aren't you? We use your skills, and my...perceptiveness!" He tried to avoid saying 'intelligence,' to keep Ja'hira's image of his humility. "Nothing can get in our way!"

Ja'hira chuckled. "Very well, my friend. I'll take you up on your offer. Just after you get off that damn bed of yours."

Surely this would be Ancano's big break, the way he could prove himself to the generals, prove to Lord Naarifin that he was worthy. No one would call him Ancano the Street Trash every again; no, he would become Ancano the Nord-Slayer!

* * *

*Because there are far fewer magic users than non-magic users, the Battlemage legions are much smaller than regular legions. They vary in size from a hundred to half a thousand, and there about five Battlemage legions.


	11. Duplicity

**So after this chapter, it's probably going to be a two or three month gap before the next one because the college application process is really starting to ramp up and I need to focus on writing stuff for that rather than fanfiction! Just as a preview for the chapters to come, the intensity will start to ramp up as the Great War becomes more desperate, eventually culminating in the sack of the Imperial City, which I am excited to write about! Until then, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and remember to follow this story if you haven't already done so and keep leaving those reviews!**

* * *

 **Chapter 10: Duplicity**

 _14_ _th_ _of Last Seed*, 4E 173_

"Alright, begin on my mark!" said Ulfric to the two combatants. On one side of the training ground was Makes-Great-Shadows, holding his gladius above his head like a viper ready to strike. On the other was Gunnulf Hakonson, a tall heavyset Nord with a thick blond beard, holding his sword at a wide angle below his chest. Both were wearing their leather armor without helmets, and the two glared at each other, each prepared to dominate the other.

Ulfric began to count down. "3….2….1!"

Makes immediately dodged the forceful swing from Gunnulf's sword, and followed up with a forceful parry. Gunnulf's sword almost flew out of his hand as he was put off his balance fell to his knees. In a matter of moments, Gunnulf found the Argonian's sword hovering right over his neck.

"Gods almighty, Makes…you're fast," Ulfric said in astonishment. "Your record stands at zero losses!" The other legionnaires looking on stared in shock. Makes's other opponents had not been defeated so quickly.

"Thank you, Ulfric," Makes responded, bringing the gladius down. The Argonian had a look of satisfaction on his face; the haughty Gunnulf had challenged Makes to a sword duel, despite the fact that no other legionnaire had beaten him. Now, the big Nord was red-faced, realizing that such a challenge was a mistake.

"You fucking lizard bastard!" Shouted Gunnulf as he lifted himself up from the ground. "What in Oblivion are you?!"

"Hey, Gunnulf!" said Ulfric. "We're all on the same side here. Save your anger for the elves."

"My apologies, Prince Ulfric, but this _snake_ is clearly hiding something. I have never seen such swordsmanship from, what did you say you were, a Riften dock worker? Who could have fucking taught him?"

"My _father_ ," Makes said with a menace that Ulfric had never heard from him. The Argonian's eyes narrowed in an expression of disgust and he appeared ready to strike Gunnulf, but Makes took in a breath and calmed himself down. "Why are you so offended? This only shows you must train more, does it not?"

"Oh please, if I had a shield you wouldn't have a chance," Gunnulf responded, pushing his finger straight into Makes's chest. "Be sure that I will challenge you again. I'm done here, Prince Ulfric." The big Nord stormed off, and Ulfric shook his head in disappointment. He tried to act like a leader, yet nobody seemed to listen to him.

It had been almost two months since the Battle of Skingrad, and not much had occurred since then. The Empire had given the Dominion a mighty defeat, only for the Dominion to follow up with the takeover of Kvatch. The elves completely abandoned any advances on the southern front through Valenwood, instead focusing on moving west towards Skingrad and north towards the Imperial City on the other side of Cyrodiil.

But the sweltering midsummer heat had prevented any large-scale advances, allowing Legion soldiers to push out into Colovia and retake towns and villages that had been razed by the elves. The only battles the legionnaires had been fighting were skirmishes with small elven detachments, so training duels had become common to make sure the soldiers' skills were still in shape. Ulfric and the others were currently stationed in Skingrad proper, assigned to patrol the walls and assist with rebuilding the exterior. Ulfric was usually the one to organize the duels, as most people were scared of fighting him despite Ulfric's insistence that he would not use his Thu'um during training.

As Makes began to walk off the training ground, Ulfric called out to him.

"Hey, Makes! I know Gunnulf is not the most restrained person, but he does mean well. You should try to talk to him. He is in the squad right next to us, after all."

"Hm, I assume he does mean well, but I believe actions talk louder than words. Isn't that what you men say?"

"Well, yes, but you really should give him another chance, Makes," pleaded Ulfric.

"Perhaps another time. Not now, however."

"Great, that's perfectly fine. But now I'm a little curious, where did you learn how to fight like that?"

"As I said, my father. He was from Black Marsh, and he came from a long line of warriors. The weapons we use are quite similar to these gladius."

"So you've never actually been to Black Marsh?"

"Ah…no, I have not." Makes looked away from Ulfric and began to stare into the sky. "I have heard wonderful things about it though. It may not be very hospitable for men, but for Argonians, we all have a natural connection to our homeland. We are drawn there by the Hist. Eventually, we all return there, even after death."

Ulfric had a suspicion that Makes was not telling the whole truth about his background, but Ulfric didn't press further. If Makes was lying, perhaps he had a personal reason for it anyway.

"Ulfric, why don't you fight me?" Makes asked suddenly, changing the topic. "I was there that day at the Imperial City, all those weeks ago. At the first training session, with Legate Potema. I remember, you were the first person to defeat her in a duel."

"Oh please, it wasn't that special. Plenty of people beat her after me. She was definitely not giving it her all."

"Perhaps, but you certainly have skill with a sword. And while the others may be scared of your powers, I see it as a unique challenge."

"You would want me to….use my shouts in a duel?" Ulfric asked with a confused look.

"Of course. It would only be fair if we used all the tools at our disposal." Makes made what appeared to be a cheeky smile.

"You are quite a character, Makes," Ulfric responded with a laugh. He had not even considered it possible to be friends with an Argonian, and now, he was proving himself wrong.

* * *

Today was a very exciting day for Commander Quintus Tullius: Emperor Titus II was finally arriving at Skingrad, to both observe the activity on the Western Front and boost the morale of the apathetic troops.

He was accompanied by mages from the Synod, the Empire's foremost magical institution after the dissolution of the Mages Guild two centuries ago. Although the battlemages were great fighters, true mages were sorely needed to boost the Legion's capabilities; gaining access to Alteration was critical, as it was a school that most battlemages were untrained in. Additionally, extra Blades members were also coming down from Cloud Ruler Temple to assist Esbern, Delphine, and the Penitus Oculatus.

Flanked on both sides by Oculatus bodyguards, the Emperor entered Castle Skingrad's council room dressed in clothes slightly less elegant than normal. Wanting to make himself appear stronger in front of his soldiers, Titus was wearing his ceremonial combat armor, with a gold tint and a flower design on the breastplate. He was followed by Septimus Scipius, Archmage of the Synod, and Julius Vulpin, senior member of the Blades. Delphine lit up upon seeing her old friend Julius, whose wild white hair and advanced age raised the eyebrows of those who weren't aware that the Blades were allowing a man in his late sixties to serve as an agent.

Everyone in the room, from the Legates to the agents to the young Count Hosidus, stood up from their seats and made a slight bow for the Emperor. Once Titus had made his way to the front of the table and sat down with Tullius on one side and Archmage Septimus on the other, everyone sat back into their seats. Julius made his way to the middle of the ovular table and sat next to Delphine.

"I didn't think they would send you," Delphine whispered.

Julius shrugged. "We're short on staff up at Cloud Ruler. I'm sure you've been dreadfully bored down here with Esbern anyway."

"Commander, General, Legates, Agents, and Count," said the Emperor, nodding towards everyone. "It is very good to have finally arrived."

"Very good to see you as well, Your Majesty," said General Darius. "We have much to discuss with you."

And so the meeting commenced. Almost everyone in the room had the chance to speak as they reported the activity on the Western Front for the past two months. Titus was informed about the towns recaptured, the elven camps destroyed, the new draftees received from Skyrim and, surprisingly, a detachment from Hammerfell. The most pleasing information to Titus was that a whole squad of elven soldiers had been captured last week, and the interrogators were hard at work in the city's dungeon. Legionnaires had also freed fellow soldiers from Kvatch imprisoned in an elven camp, and they were currently being debriefed to extract whatever information they had.

Archmage Septimus discussed how his mages would be integrated within the infantry, and Julius was somehow able to convince everyone that he was would still be able to go on covert operations without dropping dead from exhaustion.

The meeting continued for more than an hour. The Emperor stayed silent, wishing to simply observe and take in the information. Once there appeared to be nothing more to say, General Darius was about to adjourn for the day when Tullius spoke up.

"Just one minute, General. I have one more thing to add about those soldiers from Kvatch that we freed recently. Just yesterday, one soldier, I believe his name was Marius, told us something very interesting. During the siege of Kvatch almost exactly two months ago, this Gaius was an archer positioned right above the city's main gates. The elves were right outside, climbing over the walls and trying to push down the doors. But before they could do so, Gaius said he witnessed a legionnaire open the gates. From the inside. Gaius wasn't sure, but he thought it was an Altmer."

Tullius paused for a moment. "My friends, there is a spy among us. There may even be multiple. But there is certainly one, and they are under deep cover."

There was silence for a moment. Then the Emperor spoke up.

"But, Commander, simply because there was a spy in Kvatch, which is of course deeply disturbing news, that does not necessarily mean there is a spy in Skingard, does it?"

"You are correct, Your Majesty, but that was just the first part of the story. Legate Nibenaeus discovered this letter yesterday as well, lying on the ground outside one of the buildings being used as sleeping quarters for the soldiers. It is written in High Elvish, and it describes…" Tullius began reading from the note. " _The size of the Legion is not terribly large….They do not pose a direct threat in terms of an invasion….Covert operation shall continue until further notice"_ "I believe this is evidence enough. Though I must say it is a little sloppy to leave this paper lying around. Perhaps they meant to cause hysteria in the camp and drive the Legion apart."

Archmage Septimus was the first to speak up. Dressed in long blue robes with a great white beard, Septimus resembled the classic wizard in children's fables. "This is outrageous! We must do a thorough examination of each and every soldier to root out this threat."

"Perhaps we do not need to be so extreme, Archmage, but I agree that this should be a priority. However, we can discuss this in our meeting at night. Our legions are beginning their daily scouting missions outside of the city, and it would be wise if your mages joined them to learn their tactics. And everyone else, I would like to have a few words with the Emperor in private. Meeting adjourned."

The Archmage scoffed at Tullius's response, but he heeded his words and motioned his assistant mages to go out with him. As the Legates and Agents quickly got up and shuffled out of the room, Titus had a confused look on his face.

"What is this about, my dear cousin? A private meeting?"

Tullius sighed. "Titus, something big is coming." Delphine, being the last one to leave the room, was shocked to hear the Commander refer to the Emperor so casually.

"What do you mean?" asked the Emperor.

"I didn't want to tell my thoughts to the rest of the room, lest I increase the anxiety tenfold. But I must tell someone, and I know I can't hide anything from you for long."

"Ha, that is true, the Oculatus would find you eventually. So, please, tell me what you're thinking."

"The Altmer mages at the battle outside Skingrad, they were weak, they could barely cast Firestorms. They're keeping their most powerful mages, saving them for something. This whole situation with the spies as well, I have no idea how they could have even been accepted into the Legion. We took extra care to check on the backgrounds of any Altmer or Bosmer coming to join."

The Emperor took a long look at his cousin, and saw a little bit of himself in him. Both were aging, already into their late fifties, and grey hairs had begun to cover their faces. Quintus's appearance had changed so much from when they were just boys, running around the Imperial City without a care in the world. Yet he still had the same personality; he was still an expert planner, an impeccable strategist, and, generally, the more intelligent one.

He often heard the quips, that Commander Tullius was the real power behind the throne in these trying times. Titus hated to hear his power being undermined, but there was some truth to the statement. He had felt increasingly useless as the war dragged on, unable to save the lives of his own people.

"Quintus," the Emperor said. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

"That we haven't even seen the worst of what the Dominion can do. A reckoning is yet to come for the Empire."

"Gods," responded Titus. "How…how can you be so sure?"

"To tell you the truth, I'm not." The Commander gazed up at the ceiling, contemplating his next words. "You know how I'm not the most religious man, but in the past few months, I've felt compelled to start praying again. Akatosh, Julianos, Talos….anyone that is listening. And the past few nights, I've been receiving this vision, almost a nightmare. I saw the Imperial City on fire, with dead bodies strewn outside the gates. It was a hellscape straight out of Coldharbour. At first I thought it was the warpings of a Daedric Prince, perhaps Vaermina, but then I saw…Talos! Hovering over the scene, whispering something to me. Then I woke up."

"Gods be damned…." Said Titus. "An omen from Talos. You sound just like a Nord." Tullius chuckled. "But, in all seriousness, Quintus, that is…troubling."

The two sat in silence for a few moments, each staring into space. Tullius was the one to speak up. "I'm sorry to weigh down on you even more, Titus. Let's talk about something lighter: How's your son doing?"

Titus glanced at Tullius like he had two heads. "I haven't seen him in weeks!"

"Oh, of course, I forgot. Your agents still haven't found him after all this time?"

"Actually, Quintus….that's one of the reasons I'm here. My agents have informed me that someone resembling my son has been seen among the legionnaires of Skingrad. I knew the idiot told me he was running off to join the Legion, but I never thought he would actually do it. Because I've been hiding this...disappearance from the public, the only people that have actually been able to look for him are the Oculatus, which is why this ordeal has taken so damn long."

"Well, I'm sure I would have been able to recognize my own nephew by now, but I will keep a lookout out if that's what the agents really say."

"He's not the boy you once knew, Quintus. He has become an insufferable adult. He's trying to run away from his destiny. He just doesn't want to be Emperor."

"Well, it's a hard job, being at the ire of half the world, blamed for everyone's problems. At least you have that lovely girl of yours as an heir, eh?" said Tullius.

"Medea? Ah, she is sweet, but not fit to rule. She's too nice and pure, and she doesn't seem to grasp the consequences of her actions.

"Well, she's only an adolescent, right? Give her time, Titus. If Donus doesn't step up, then she certainly will. She's a smart girl. And anyway, I remember you were always complaining about your father making you go through the imperial duties, so I don't think your son's reaction is terribly unique. Children will be children."

"Hm, I suppose." Titus conceded. "But he is no child anymore, and he doesn't have the right to act like one." The two fell silent for a few moments.

"Well, anyway, I must say that the Nord legionnaires have surprised me with their effectiveness," said the Emperor. "They're even somewhat polite as well! At least, the ones I've met so far."

"I feel the same, Titus. Honestly, we should have called them to Cyrodiil sooner. We underestimated the loyalty of many of them."

"Ha, I suppose you're right. With all this talk of spies, perhaps the Nords are the only ones we can really trust."

* * *

"Ulfric!" Rikke called out as he was walking through Skingrad's main square. It was almost evening, and the area was covered in townsfolk and legionnaires crossing left and right, going to the dining halls or to the rooming houses for the night.

"Rikke! Haven't seen you all day…" Ulfric trailed off when he realized Rikke was accompanied by someone, a young tall Imperial with tan skin and short brown hair.

"I just wanted you to meet my friend here," she responded. "This is Gaius. He was just transferred to our squad yesterday, from the City."

"Pleased to meet you," Gaius said with a slight smile. He looked to be a few years older than Ulfric and Rikke, and he spoke in a very formal and uptight tone, as if he was speaking to a commanding officer. "I am Gaius Tullius."

"Pleased to meet you as well," Ulfric said, giving a strong handshake. "I'm Ulfric. Ulfric Stormcloak. You said your name was Tullius?"

"Yes, Commander Quintus Tullius is my father. I'm just a normal soldier, however."

"I see. Well, your father is…quite an interesting man," Ulfric said with a chuckle.

"Hm? What's that supposed to mean?" Asked Gaius with a completely straight face, narrowing his eyes. He assumed Ulfric was making an underhanded insult rather than a friendly joke.

"Ah….nothing, nothing," responded Ulfric, feeling slightly awkward with his failure of a joke. He already wasn't a fan of Gaius; the Imperial's aura was cold and arrogant, as if he felt that everyone around him should follow his lead. He was certainly a Commander's son.

"Well, anyway, I was just about to go to Castle Skingrad to speak with my father. Rikke, see you later," he said with a warm smile. "Ulfric Stormcloak, I shall see you around," Gaius said in a less warm tone as he walked away.

Ulfric began speaking in Nordic so Gaius wouldn't be able to catch on to the conversation. " _Talos_ _ælmihtig_ , I've never met a stiffer Imperial. How do you tolerate him?"

"I know, I know, he's a serious guy, but he is really nice once he opens up to you."

"Opens up? What in Oblivion are you talking about?" Ulfric said with a glare of jealousy.

"What! What in Oblivion are _you_ fucking talking about!?" Rikke spat back with a surge of anger.

Ulfric regretted saying anything, remembering that Rikke was just as headstrong as him. "I just….I'm sorry, Rikke, I didn't mean that."

"What's gotten into you, Ulfric? This lashing out….it's not like you. I thought the Greybeards made you more peaceful."

He sighed. "I'm not sure. I suppose it's this damn war. Just all this waiting around for something to happen. I wouldn't want there to be a battle every day, but this is just agonizing. It's like we're just waiting around to….die."

"Ulfric! Don't say things like that. You know the Daedra are attracted to negative energy."

"Agh, you don't really believe that crap, do you?" he responded with a small laugh, amused by Rikke's bizarre superstition. "But, it's just that….everyone's acting like I'm some mystical hero, that I have to be a leader. I'm no leader. People don't listen to what I have to say, and most just keep their distance anyway, afraid that I'll shout them to death or some shit like that."

"Ulfric!" Rikke put her arms on his shoulders and shook him lightly. "Of course they believe in you! You let these people see a side of themselves that they've never seen before. You remember that seventeen-year-old you were talking to the other day, Ivan was his name? Gods, he looked like he snuck right out of the children's orphanage, but you showed him how to fight properly, how to actually wield a damn gladius. Do you think he respects you because of the Voice, or because of your skill?"

Ulfric thought about that moment for a second, and smiled. "Damn, Rikke. You really do know how to make me feel better." He checked to make sure no one was watching them, and then kissed Rikke on the lips, feeling the warmth from her face. She touched his grizzled face, feeling his shaved skin. The Legion didn't let beards or hair grow too long, lest they come in the way during combat.

"Ulfric, I want to make sure that you know how I feel about you. It's taken me many years to realize this, but I really do love –"

"What's going on over here?" Loudly interjected Galmar, walking over to his two friends. Rikke quickly pulled her hand away from Ulfric's face. "Was her hand just on your…"

"Galmar, nothing's going on, alright?" said Ulfric, slightly irritated.

The young Stone-Fist raised his eyes for a moment, before responding, "alright, alright, I believe you," though not entirely convincingly. Ulfric did not particularly like trying to hide things from his best friend, but Ulfric felt Galmar simply wasn't ready to know the truth, or at least he wouldn't take the truth well.

"Well, I came by because I was looking for you _,_ Ulfric _._ We have to report back in a few minutes. Vittorius wants to talk about something, he says it's of 'paramount importance.' "

"Alright, then, we should be getting down there. Rikke, see you later," Ulfric looked straight into her eyes, and he could see her look of disappointment and embarrassment of being interrupted by Galmar of all people. Then they laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

"Hey, is there something I'm missing here?" Galmar said, hopelessly confused.

"Gods, Galmar, it's nothing!" chuckled Rikke. "You two get along already."

As Ulfric walked through Skingrad's crowded streets, he thought about him and Rikke. Was she really as serious as she said she was? Was all this romance even a good idea in the first place? Ulfric thought himself a fool for starting this right in the middle of war. Thanks to the Legion's strict policy against romantic relations, the two of them hadn't even had the time or secrecy to do anything more sensual than kissing. He should have waited until after all this mess, when the two of them were back at Windhelm, free to do whatever they wanted. Unfortunately, his lust got the better of him.

And anyway, Rikke didn't seem to be one for a stable relationship. She had said herself that she might join the Legion for good. What would Ulfric do then? He knew his father was right when he had said that "love consumes everything, even your deepest thoughts." Ulfric desperately tried to ween his mind off of Rikke, tried to think about his duel with Makes or how he would deal with Gunnulf. But he couldn't get her out of his head, that damned girl of his dreams.

Rikke had consumed him.

* * *

* The month of Last Seed is equivalent to August


	12. Siege

**Chapter 11: Siege**

 _1_ _st_ _of Second Seed**_

Ulfric struggled to push through the market of the Imperial City, now completely packed with people scrounging the stalls for the last bits of food. The City's shiny marble streets were covered in litter and filth, with beggars in grey rags clustered in the alleyways picking up the leftover scraps.

It had been more than eight months since the takeover of Skingrad. Commander Tullius's predictions had come true as the Legion was completely unprepared against the refined, terrifying magical prowess of the Thalmor's best mages. Ulfric didn't remember the day too well, only the frantic panicking as the legionnaires attempted to evacuate themselves and the city's populace. He remembered the long march to the Imperial City, as Thalmor Incinerate spells rained down on them. Somehow, the entire 501st squad had survived, while Rikke's squad was not as lucky, losing half of their men.

Unfortunately, the 501st was forced to lose one of its men when it was revealed that Donus was in fact Donus Mede, Prince of the Empire. Ulfric was less shocked of his true identity and more shocked that nobody noticed this fact sooner.

But now, the situation was dire for the Empire, if it could even be called that anymore. Anvil, Kvatch, and Skingrad had fallen in the West. Leyawiin and Bravil had been razed in the South. The Blackwoods had been decimated in the East. Almost the entirety of Cyrodiil had been taken over, and the Imperial City was surrounded on three sides by Dominion troops in a siege that had lasted more than a month. Imperial ships were still patrolling Lake Rumare, fighting daily battles with the Aldmeri fleet attempting to enter through the mouth of the Nibenay River, but they more and more Thalmor ships continued to come. An attack on the Isle only seemed inevitable at this point.

The Imperial Isle had become massively overcrowded as the surviving refugees were forced to make ramshackle homes and tents outside the main walls. In First Seed Emperor Titus had issued the decree to completely close off the city, and thus any citizens stuck beyond the bridges were not allowed to enter; if they sailed across Lake Rumare in makeshift canoes, they were turned back by regretful legionnaires. There was simply not enough space for anyone. The temples had become filled with bodies as disease went rampant in the poorer sections. Extreme Ataxia was the most common, but the priests began to fear that the Plague would soon sweep through the slums.

Titus had also made the unenviable decision to destroy the City's East, West, and South bridges, to prevent any possibility of a Dominion land assault. The mighty Talos Bridge now had an ugly, crumbling split in the middle, a stark reminder of how far the Empire had fallen. Only the North bridge to Chorrol remained open, the last bastion of hope for a starving city and a last-ditch escape route if the siege took an unfortunate ending.

The lines for bread seemed to stretch for miles, and the entire Talos Plaza had been locked away as the City's wealthy denizens feared an uprising by a frustrated populace. The legionnaires were having trouble both keeping order and making sure the Thalmor did not make a night invasion of the Isle. Commander Tullius had shut down the Elder Council and restricted all republican discourse, removing the bureaucracy and making him and Titus the only two forces of authority in this time of crisis.

Ulfric remembered the last time he was in the city, almost a year ago, when the citizens were going about their day as if there was no war at all, completely disconnected from the reality of the farmlands. Now, they were struggling to survive until the next day. Every few days, a catapult projectile landed within the city walls, crushing an entire building and murdering everyone inside. At a certain point, there was no more mourning as the City accepted the occurrences as part of the daily routine.

"Can you spare a Septim, young soldier?" Ulfric turned to his side to see a crowd of beggars young and old. He saw a mother with three children running around, all dressed in farmers' rags; evidently, they had had no change of clothes since they had to flee their homes.

"Sorry, sir," Ulfric whispered ashamedly as he quickly walked away, avoiding his eyes from the rest of the homeless. How had he become so weak and pitiful? Was this the Nord way, he thought to himself, to ignore the needy and carry on?

"Ulfric!" the young Stormcloak turned to see Delphine running up to him.

"Delphine!" he said happily. At least now he had someone to distract from his destructive thoughts. "Gods, I haven't seen you in months, have I?"

"Yeah, it's been a tough ride, to say the least. The Blades have been working around the clock, and now that it's too unsafe to conduct espionage, we're trapped on this damn Isle."

"Aye, trapped is the word. Look at these people," Ulfric motioned around him, to the wretched beggars and squatters. "This is what the grand capital has been reduced to. A grand pile of horseshit."

Delphine only sighed and nodded. There was nothing else to add.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel any more sad about our situation," Ulfric said.

"No, no, not at all–"

"Where are you headed to anyway?"

"Oh, I was actually going to the White-Gold Tower. Esbern and the other stationed Blades have some mission to give me."

"Ah, it just so happens I was walking that same way. Do you mind if I join you?"

"Of course not! Come along."

So the two walked, continuing to squeeze through the masses of people and finding slightly more open sides of the road. There were no longer carriages riding through the City, only the occasional Legate on horseback.

After sneaking off of the market street into an area they could actually walk alongside each other, Ulfric spoke up. "You know, Delphine, I realize that I really don't know much about you. How old are you?"

"Me? Twenty-one. Actually, tomorrow's my birthday, so I'm almost twenty-two."

"Oh, really? That's great, my twenty-second was a few weeks ago. And also, I was wondering, how'd you end up as a Blade so young? I thought it was an 'elite' group. Not that you aren't skilled, of course."

"Well, I joined the Legion in 172, and I guess they thought my skills fit what the Blades could do. Arkay knows that they needed the manpower."

"What do you mean?" asked Ulfric.

"Hm? You don't know? About what happened to the Blades before the war?"

"Not particularly."

"You never heard about the cart of heads that were brought to the Emperor's footsteps?!"

"A cart...of heads?" Ulfric wondered how much the Greybeards hadn't told him about the state of the world in the months he was up in High Hrothgar.

"Yeah. Fifty-seven Blades agents, murdered by the elves, sent back by the smuggest messenger of all time. So it only makes sense they were so desperate for new recruits. I was in the right place at the right time I suppose."

"Shit." Ulfric was shocked he had never heard about this event.

"Seriously. Gods, fuck these elves."

"Aye."

They fell silent for a few moments. Delphine looked as if she was holding something within her.

Ulfric looked at her with an anticipating look. "Do you have something you want to tell me, Delphine?"

"Yes, Ulfric. I have something to tell you. They're...they're hunting you, the elves."

"What do you mean?"

"They're calling you _Crea._ The 'Shouter.'"

"So I'm famous?" he said with a small laugh.

"Well, yes, but not in a good way. The elves are capturing people, Ulfric. From the Isle."

"What? That's impossible? We would have heard about that by now."

Delphine leaned into Ulfric and spoke more softly. "The Commander's covering it up. I'm not supposed to be telling you this. He doesn't want outright panic yet. The City's already at the brink. It's only a matter of time before the peasants storm the Talos Plaza for the grain stores."

"Damn."

"Please don't spread this around. I trust you, Ulfric. We're having trouble keeping order as is. And please, be careful using your shouts. You don't want to identify yourself to any spies."

"Sorry, Delphine, but if someone's attacking me, I have to use my Thu'um. Thank you for your concern, though."

Ulfric was surprised the she was showing so much concern for him. Perhaps she was attracted to him. Delphine was certainly attractive herself. Even though they looked quite similar, Rikke and Delphine were beautiful in different ways: Delphine was graceful, slender, with fine features, while Rikke was rougher, taller, and more fierce. Ulfric pushed these thoughts out of his head almost as soon as he started thinking them, however. He had to remain dedicated to Rikke.

They reached the entrance to the central neighborhood of the City, where the White-Gold Tower was located. There were at least a dozen legionnaires standing in front of the gate, watchful of any poorer folk trying to get inside the nicer area.

"Well, this is where I'll be off," said Delphine. She turned to face Ulfric, and put her hands in his. They stared into each other's eyes for a moment, with Delphine putting on a warm smile. Ulfric slowly pulled his hands away, and Delphine blushed.

"Of course, see you around!" Ulfric said with an awkward smile. He really had no idea what to think of her.

* * *

"How long did you think you could hide from me?" said Emperor Titus Mede to his son Donus Mede. The young prince had his head tilted to the side and his arms crossed, irritated by his father's anger. It was morning, and the two were standing in the middle of the royal bedroom.

Donus remained silent, realizing that no matter what he said, his father would become furious anyway. Better to save energy and say nothing.

"Nothing to say for yourself?"

Donus sighed. "Sorry, Father."

"Sorry? Is that all you can say? Do you not understand how worried we all were about you, _regiculus?_ "

"Please don't call me that anymore! I'm not your _little king_."

"Gods, Donus, why is it so hard for you to accept your fate! That's all I want for you, to realize your potential. This is what you were born to do, you were born to lead. You are the heir to Akatosh, to Tiber Septim, to Titus the First! Is this a mistake, for me to think like this? Have I made such an egregious error in wanting to protect you?"

Donus sighed and thought for a moment. "Father, all I wanted to do was fight alongside our subjects, to fight for the Empire, maybe even inspire our soldiers. But all you wanted to do is keep me locked up inside the Palace? For 'safety?' I could understand why you'd want to keep Medea safe, but I don't need that, Father!"

"Safe from what?" Said a voice outside the bedroom. Titus and Donus both turned and saw Princess Medea peering through the door. She was absolutely stunning, even though she had just woken up. She had skin as light as a Breton's, in stark contrast to her brother and father's olive tones. Her long black hair was worn down and glistening in the sunlight. Dressed in her pure white nightrobe, she was still rubbing her eyes from drowsiness. She was only 17, yet her demeanor and gait made her seem far older and wiser.

"Ah, my beautiful girl!" Said Titus with a large smile on his face. "You're awake."

"Morning, Medea," said Donus with a smaller smile. In his long absence from the Imperial Palace, the one person he missed the most was certainly his little sister.

"Morning! So, I'm safe from what?" Medea said, repeating her question.

"The War, Medea, the War," responded Donus.

"And you're not?" she responded.

"Your brother is a little delusional, _reginula._ He's trying to shirk his responsibilities."

"Father, please stop this!"

"No, you stop this, my son!"

"Donus, can you please stop making Father so angry," interjected Medea. "He's already under enough stress as is."

"Thank you, _reginula,_ " Titus said, giving Donus a sharp side-eye.

"You're taking his side too?! Damn all of this."

"Donus Anvilius Titus Optimus Mede," began Titus. Medea's eyes widened, having never heard her father call her brother by his full name. "Do you know why we named you that, Donus? Because you were our _donum,_ our gift from Mara. Your mother, we tried so hard to have a child, but for years, it simply did not work. We put all our hearts into prayer, and one day, you just came out. You must understand, your mother and I are so grateful to even have you in this world, and we only want what's best for you. We just want to keep you safe. You are the heir to the throne. If we lost you, imagine what that would do to the Empire. What would you want for your children?"

"You know what _I_ want, Father, I want to fight out there, defend the City. If the soldiers see that their prince is fighting with them, it'll only increase their morale. Just ask Uncle Quintus–"

"The only thing I'm willing to ask _Uncle Quintus_ is how it was possible that he could not recognize his own nephew hiding within the damn Legion itself!" Titus made a long sigh, attempting to calm himself down. "Donus, I am absolutely willing to forgive you. But you must see my point of view. I will give you some time to ruminate." As he walked out of the bedroom, he gave Medea a kiss on the cheek.

Donus and Medea were left alone, standing around in the royal bedroom.

"Damn this, damn this all!"

Medea put her hand on her brother's shoulder. She was surprisingly tall for her age. "Big Brother, if you really want, I can help you."

"Oh, really, Little Sister? You couldn't help me when Father was in the room, could you."

"Sorry, sorry, I was trying to be funny but I guess I sounded stupid. I'll talk to him."

"Really? That would be fantasic, Medea. You understand my logic, right?"

"Of course. The only reason Father and Uncle Quintus don't fight is because they're older, right? You absolutely have to fight. You can't be like those Breton kings in the stories, always sending out knights and champions to fight their duels for them while they fattened themselves up," she said with a little laugh.

Donus embraced his little sister. "Alright, the operation begins now," he said, referencing their childhood days when they would pretend to be Penitus Oculatus agents.

"No promises, though," Medea said with a smile. "You know how fickle Father can be."

* * *

Nighttime had fallen upon Cyrodiil, yet there would be no rest for the legionnaires. Most soldiers had to stay up through the darkness in tedious and nerve-wracking night shifts. Tensions ran high as everyone was fearful of an attack at any moment, with particularly paranoid–or perhaps cheeky–legionnaires spreading rumors of Khajiit assassins slitting throats in the pitch black of night.

Ulfric was standing upon the massive walls of the City alongside the squads in the 500s. They were all equipped with bows, whether or not they could shoot them well. Galmar and Igmund were having great trouble staying up while Dres stared into the darkness almost unblinkingly. From this point, Ulfric could barely make out the line of catapults across Lake Rumare, with hundreds of bright spots made by elven campfires.

Suddenly, Officer Vittorius walked up to his squad.

"501st! Has anyone seen Makes?"

Galmar and Igmund were awoken out of their trance, only to shake their heads.

"No, Vittorius, I haven't seen him since the afternoon."

"Hm, that's strange, he should be up here with us. Ulfric, would you mind go checking on our barracks and see if he's there?"

"Of course."

Thankfully, the 500s barracks was right below in the Market District, so it only took Ulfric a few minutes to climb down into the mostly barren streets. Whole squads were patrolling the streets, keeping beggars in the alleys and looking for any signs of espionage.

Ulfric slowly opened the door of the barracks, a massive stone and wood complex with bedsheets and blankets sprawled across the ground. As there were not enough beds for all the soldiers now stationed in the City, most had to sleep on the cold floor. Ulfric creeped around, looking around for his Argonian friend. As he walked around and peered into the various rooms, he could hear the furious scribbling of quill on parchment. Ulfric turned the corner into the back room and saw Makes-Great-Shadows sitting at a desk, writing words in a surprisingly beautiful handwriting.

"Makes?" Ulfric began to walk over and glance at the words on the page. "Is that…High Elvish?" He could recognize some words from the few Elvish lessons that the Legion had given when spy paranoia was high a few months ago.

The Argonian turned his head suddenly, startled by Ulfric's sudden appearance, and he attempted to quickly cover up what he was writing with his hands. Then he stopped and shook his head.

"No, there is no reason to hide from you, no excuse I can give you."

"What? What are you talking about? What in Oblivion are you doing? Are you a…"

"Ulfric, please, allow me to explain myself." He took in a deep breath. "I…I am a spy, for lack of a better term. Not for the elves, however. For my own people. For Black Marsh."

"But….but you were writing in Altmer?"

"Yes. It is part of our training. Do you remember that Elvish letter that caused the whole Legion to become so anxious back in Skingrad, all those months ago? That was my letter. I had suspected that the Oculatus suspected me, so I left that letter lying around to throw the Legion off. It seems I have become too sloppy, however. I had assumed no one would notice my absence when it is so dark, but I should have been more careful."

"Gods, Makes," began Ulfric with a sigh. "I consider you a friend, a comrade. But this…what secrets are you selling to Black Marsh?"

"Not selling, no. I am not from Riften, as I originally claimed. I was born and bred in my homeland, a member of the elite order of Shadowscales. Black Marsh wanted to know if Empire could be considered a friend or foe, so they sent me into deep cover to make sure that we would be prepared if there was ever war with the Empire. But I have fought for the Legion, as you have seen, and I hate the elves just as much as you do. We Argonians know the evil the Dominion will bring upon the world if the Cyrodiil falls."

"Are you the only Argonian spy?"

"In this area, yes. I know of others but my leaders have not told me who they are. They want to keep us working independently, so if one is captured, the others may continue their work."

There was a long silence as Ulfric stared disapprovingly at Makes.

"Why have you told me all of this?"

"Because you are a good man, Ulfric, and you deserve to know. I trust you. But please, do not tell anyone else of this. I promise you will not regret this. Nothing I am doing is harmful to the Legion. The blood I shed was for the Empire, even if I am a citizen of Black Marsh as well."

Ulfric thought for a few moments and sighed. "Alright, Makes, I'll keep your secret. But do _not_ expect any more favors from me."

"Thank you, thank you, Ulfric. You will not regret this." Makes made what seemed to be a smile and made a slight bow before Ulfric.

"I hope not. Come, let's go out to the walls."

The young Stormcloak was not sure he made the right choice. He thought he had known Makes well, yet here he was, hiding such a great secret from him. Who knew what else the Argonian was hiding? Could he even trust Makes anymore?

Despite this doubt, Ulfric still thought it was better to be merciful. He was always looking for the good in people. His father Hoag called it his greatest weakness, but Ulfric saw it as a strength. People, whether man, mer, or beast, are complicated creatures, with positive and negative parts. One had to take the whole picture in order to make a proper examination.

Ulfric was about to find out what his optimism would cost.

* * *

** **Second Seed is equivalent to May**


	13. An Unexpected Triumph

**This one's a little bit on the shorter side, as I felt it was necessary for the events here. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 12: An Unexpected Triumph**

 _2_ _nd_ _of Second Seed_

Ulfric had not slept for two days. As Thalmor barrages on the City intensified and more and more Imperial ships sank under the waters of Lake Rumare, legionnaires had to stay up around the clock to be prepared against an amphibious assault. Tension ran high on the Imperial Isle, with conversation kept to a minimum as everyone threw themselves into their work, trying to distract themselves from the utter despair of their situation. The 501st squad had become particularly glum with the absence of Prince Donus and Delphine; even Galmar, ever the talkative one of the party, had become taciturn and despondent.

Ulfric and Rikke's relationship, if it could even be called that, had become heavily strained as they were barely able to see each other; if they did catch sight of the other, they were usually marching to another side of the Isle for patrols. Luckily, this night Ulfric and Rikke's squads were both stationed atop the west side of the Imperial City's massive walls. They stood together, gazing down upon the Imperial Isle and Lake Rumare and at the elven camps on the other side, lit up like a line of fireflies. Eyes heavy with drowsiness, Ulfric was about to fall asleep when he heard the shout of a familiar voice.

"Squads! Gather around!" said Legate Potema. Ulfric's face lit up upon seeing his old superior. It had been months since he had actually seen her, with the Battlemages having been busy with more elite duties ever since the Empire had become holed up in the City. She was dressed in a full suit of silver armor, and her dark Nibenaean skin almost glistened in the moonlight.

"What do you need of us, Legate?" Asked Galmar in an uncharacteristically monotone voice. Ulfric worried for his friend, seeing how the tolls of war had finally caught up to him.

"Well, don't worry, Stone-Fist, I don't need all of you. How about….Makes! Stormcloak! You're coming with me!"

"Just those two?" asked Vittorius with a confused look.

"Don't worry, Officer, the walls will hold with two less legionnaires standing up here."

"Ha, of course, Legate, but you're not bringing any Battlemages with you?"

"They're all held up at other parts of the wall. This is just a personal mission of mine, anyway, nothing that requires much manpower. Just wanted to check up on a little movement I heard near the western shore of the Isle, near the Prison."

"Spies, you think?"

"Maybe. Could be stray dogs for all I know. Still doesn't hurt to check, but I just don't want to make a fuss about this in case it is nothing."

"Very well, Legate. Ulfric, Makes, stay sharp," said Vittorius.

"Of course, Vittorius," responded Ulfric. He nodded to Dres, Igmund, and Galmar, and then put his hand on Rikke's shoulder. He was able to restrain himself from kissing her so as to not expose their romance to the others.

"I hope you'll be able to survive without me."

"Ha, will you be able to survive without me?" Rikke whispered with a smile. "Stay safe."

* * *

"So, how have you been, Stormcloak?" Potema said. "Been holding up?"

"As well as anyone realistically can right now, Legate," Ulfric responded honestly.

"Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. It's hard to stay positive. Impossible, even. But that doesn't mean we can submit and let the damn elves run us over just to end the war."

"Are people actually saying that?"

"Oh of course: 'Come on, it won't be so bad. The only thing the elves want is to ban Talos worship, that's not a big deal! And they want us to give up Hammerfell! We don't care about the fucking Redguards anyway!'" That's all those coward nobles are saying up in rich quarters of the City. Stormcloak, the Emperor is many things, but thankfully, he is not a pushover."

"Neither are you, Legate."

Potema smiled at those words. "Damn right. You're not so bad yourself, Stormcloak. I've heard a lot of shitty stuff about Nords, but you just about prove all of them wrong. You too, Makes-Great-Shadows. You are both exemplary soldiers. If you could use magic, I'd put you in the Battlemages in a heartbeat. Well, you've got your Nordic shouting crap, Stormcloak, but that doesn't entirely count."

The three continued to walk through the dark streets of the City until they reached the West Gate. Potema spoke with the guards, and they nodded, opening up the massive twin doors out to the Isle.

The Isle was so peaceful and serene, Ulfric almost forgot there was a war going on. He gazed around at the small rolling hills, dotted with houses and tents and wooden shanties. It was completely dark, with most people forced to put out their candlelights so as to not attract elven catapults. He glanced up at the night sky, at the majestic spread of the stars across a purple-tinted nebula. He saw the twin moons, Masser and Secunda, boring over the City intimidatingly.

Out here was where all the refugees from the farms and towns were kept, forced into squalid conditions with legionnaires breathing down their throats. There were hundreds of soldiers marching around the Isle, watching over the squatters and the other side of the Rumare for elven attacks. The Isle was in a constant state of paranoia as both citizens and soldiers lived in anticipation invasion, being the first lines of defense and destruction.

They walked for about half an hour until Potema told them to stop. "It was right around here that I saw the light," she said, pointing her torch down at the banks of the west side of the Isle. Of course, Ulfric and Makes could barely see what she was indicating, but they nodded and continued to follow her along. They had gone past the settled area, hundreds of yards away from the nearest patrol or inhabitant. The perfect place for an enemy to launch a surprise attack.

"Damn. There doesn't seem to be anything here," Potema said. She glanced around, peering at the ground for any possible clues. Ulfric noticed Makes narrowing his eyes and raising his head, opening his ears to any possible sounds.

"Legate!" quickly said Makes. "I hear something. It sounds like footsteps, from that small hill over there," he pointed a few yards away.

Potema pointed her torch towards that direction, taking a step forward. "I hear it too, Makes. Stormcloak, go out–"

Legate Potema's words were cut short by an elven arrow that lodged itself straight into her neck.

She began to choke herself as blood spurted out from both sides of the gash. Ulfric and Makes stared in horror as Potema attempted to rip the arrow out of her neck in her last breaths of life. She fell to the floor, writhing around.

"Potema! Fuck!" Ulfric took out his sword and began to spin around, panicking. He didn't have his shield as wall patrols were not supposed to carry them, so he felt completely wide open and defenseless. With Potema's torch falling to the ground and blowing out, he could barely see anything through the pitch black of night.

"Ulfric! Focus!" shouted Makes. "Put your back to mine, we can spot the enemy more easily!"

Ulfric heard some movement to the right of him and saw dim figures running towards him. In a split-second decision, he shouted.

"YOL TOOR SHUL!"

He hit an Khajiit in front of him, who fell to the floor and began screaming as his entire body became enveloped in flames. Ulfric could make out multiple shapes heading towards him, with swords drawn. He bent his legs and pulled his sword up to his chest, prepared to fight off whoever was coming for him and his comrade.

Suddenly, Ulfric saw a beam of green light shoot towards him. He tried to deflect it with his sword, but it moved too fast: Ulfric felt a complete loss of control of his body as he fell to the ground, his arms and legs having become completely rigid. He tried to strain but was unable to move even the slightest muscle, not even his mouth. He had been Paralyzed. The mage who had fired the bolt emerged from behind the small hill and made a small clap as the rest of the soldiers surrounded Makes.

"By Auriel, what luck we have!" said the mage Ancano in Altmeri as he walked up to the frozen body of Ulfric, twitching slightly in a struggle to move. "The Shouter himself walks right into our hands! Gods, and I thought we would be capturing some random fucking imbecile to torture." There were eight Altmer and Khajiit soldiers, with one Ohmes Khajiit putting her sword to Makes's neck.

Ancano put his hands on Ulfric's arm, almost as if he was feeling it to make sure Ulfric was real. "Ja'hira, take care of the Argonian, please," Ancano said, commanding the female Ohmes.

"Wait! Stop! Let us make a deal!" shouted Makes in High Elvish. Ja'hira hesitated her execution, shocked that the Argonian was speaking such a language.

"Well now, how does an Argonian come to know Altmeri?" said Ancano with a devilishly curious smile.

"I'm not really part of the Legion. I…I am a spy, for Black Marsh," Makes said with slight hesitation. "I was sent here by the An-Xileel to observe the Empire. I have been trained in multiple languages to carry out my missions."

"Is that so."

"I'm not your enemy," Makes continued in near-flawless High Elvish. "Please, I can help you and your people. I must make it back to Black Marsh."

"Really? How can I be sure? Everyone, what should we do with the lizard?" Ancano asked his fellow soldiers.

An elven soldier spoke up. "I don't see how else an Argonian could have learned our language, Ancano. Besides, he could be useful. Perhaps allow us to gain more friendly relations with Black Marsh."

"Hm, you may be right, Nelacar. Very well, Argonian, you shall come back with us to our camp and we will decide what to do with you then."

Ulfric was screaming inside of his head. "Fight, Makes! Run! Go back to the walls! Do something other than negotiate with these fuckers! Fucking liar, you said you hated the elves just as much as we did!" His mouth would simply not move, however. Makes was showing his true colors.

"Very well," responded Makes, going along with the plan. Ulfric almost wanted to kill him in that moment. The coward! Lizard bastard! Ulfric knew that these thoughts directly contradicted what he had been saying to his fellow Nords, but he just couldn't stop his rage from overwhelming him.

In the distance, Ulfric spotted out of the corner of his eye a couple of torches coming nearer. Presumably legionnaires, having heard Ulfric's shout.

"Fuck, the men heard us," said Ancano. "Quickly, everyone, back to the ships. Argonian, help me carry the Shouter!"

"Kill this fucking Nord, Ancano," said another Khajiit. "He murdered J'zaga," he pointed towards the burnt, steaming body of the Khajiit that Ulfric had shouted to death.

"Idiot! This is the Shouter, the man we have been hunting for months! We have to bring him to the generals first! J'zaga should have been more careful!"

"And what about the dead woman, Ancano?" said Ja'hira.

"Leave her! As an example. Spread some fear in their ranks. We're not coming back on this accursed isle until the main invasion anyway."

Ancano and Makes carried Ulfric's frozen body a couple yards to the bank of the lake, where two small rafts were tied up next to a few oars. The two hoisted Ulfric onto one ship and jumped in, pushing off into the black of Lake Rumare, towards the glowing lights of the elven camps. They made sure all their torches were blown out so they couldn't be spotted by legionnaires.

As he was placed on his back, Ulfric could only clearly see the night sky, with the brilliant stars and the twin moons almost laughing at him for his sloppiness. As if the gods were mocking him for being captured in such a humiliating fashion, and for being such a fool for trusting Makes-Great-Shadows. His father was right about his naiveté, and now it was about to cause his death. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Makes staring at the Imperial City, a stone-faced look on his face. On the other side of the raft, Ancano was humming a soft tune as another Khajiit rowed to the other side.

"I know that I am your prisoner, but I have a request to make," Makes said after a few minutes of silence.

"And what would that be, sir Argonian?" said Ancano sarcastically.

"Please, spare my friend, the Shouter. Bring no harm towards him. He is a good man." Ulfric felt no better on hearing these words. Empty words for a cold-blooded traitor, he thought. Rather than take responsibility, Makes was trying to take the coward's way out, making deals with the enemy, pleading with them like a begging child to save his poor friend's life when it was clear he really only cared about saving his own skin. It was simply pathetic.

"My apologies, but that is out of my hands now," Ancano responded with a shrug. "The generals, perhaps even Lord Naarifin himself will decide what to do with him. I have no more power in this regard."

"Hm, I see." Makes began to look out into the distance, defeated and despondent.

Ulfric was furious now. That's it, he just gives up? What a fucking joke! In his anger, Ulfric almost made a movement, twitching his head slightly. Ancano noticed and made a small frown.

"Ah, I forgot to make our prisoner unconscious. Paralysis can incapacitate even the most brutish of Orcs, but I always forget it doesn't exactly prevent eavesdropping." Ancano snatched Ja'hira's sword and punched the hilt into Ulfric's skull. The last thing he remembered was Makes's face, staring at him with those cold, expressionless reptilian eyes. Did he feel any sympathy, any pain, any humiliation? Unfortunately, Ulfric never could learn to read the emotions of Argonians very well. He would die without ever knowing what his former 'comrade' was trying to tell him.

* * *

After a few moments, the 402nd squad arrived to the area where they heard Ulfric's shout. All they found was the body of Potema Brutio, one of the greatest soldiers of the Imperial Legion, with her eyes wide open in terror and an arrow sticking out of her throat.


	14. Preparations

**Chapter 13: Preparations**

 _11_ _th_ _of Second Seed_

Rikke didn't think she would be one to cry so easily. Yet here she was, tears streaming down her face for the second time since _that_ day. She wasn't even entirely sure what triggered her outburst, perhaps it was just Officer Vittorius mentioning his name. She had run into the West Barracks, hiding herself from her fellow legionnaires. She caught sight of her reflection in a glass; her pale face was red with emotion, and her golden hair had grown out so long since the beginning of the war.

She almost wanted to hit herself for being so weak, so pitiful, so helpless. She remembered how her father would always say that "Nord girls don't cry, that's reserved for Imperial girls." She remembered the princesses in those Breton fairy tales, the ones that always had to be saved by some dashing prince wielding the legendary sword and riding a white stallion. She always loved to talk about how different she was from those damsels, how she was a strong Nord woman, how she would be the one to save all the men from their imprisonment.

A small part of her wished she could be the hero in this story, but as she had realized, there are no heroes in war. Only the dead and the alive.

Rikke was startled by the sound of someone opening the tent flap. It was Galmar, with a neutral look on his face. He walked slowly towards Rikke.

"Galmar," she said, quickly wiping away her tears. "What do you want."

"Rikke," he said softly. His dark blond hair had grown so long that he had tied it into a ponytail at the end, and his piercing blue eyes stared straight into Rikke's. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Galmar, please don't worry about me. We all have more important things to think about."

Galmar placed his hand on her shoulder. "I don't know how to tell you this softly, but you have to let it go."

"What?! Let what go, Galmar?!" she exclaimed, knowing full well what he meant.

" _Ulfric is dead!_ There's no point crying about it anymore, for the gods' sake!" Galmar shouted, unleashing his true emotions. He had noticed how despondent and apathetic Rikke had been for these past few days, and he was tired of seeing his old headstrong friend become so defeated. The elves hadn't even broken through the walls yet.

Rikke's eyebrows narrowed and she rose up, meeting Galmar's gaze. "Easy for you to say!" she said with rage. "You call yourself his friend, and you're forgetting him so fucking soon? You have no idea what he meant to me, none, you big fucking oaf!" she breathed hard, exhausting herself in her anger.

Galmar just stared at her for a few moments with such a cold stare that Rikke was almost afraid he would hit her. "You think I have no idea what he meant to you, do you? You truly think I'm as stupid as I look? I think I would notice if my two best friends were fucking each other behind my back!"

Rikke backed away slightly with a look of confusion. "You thought you were being so sneaky, hiding your 'relationship' from everyone else, including me?" Galmar continued. "We all fucking know, Rikke. I'm only trying to help you, I swear on the Nine Divines."

Rikke nodded, staring down at the ground in shame. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay, I'm….I'm sorry I called you that."

Galmar sighed. "Don't worry about it. Look, I'm just as fucking depressed as you about Ulfric, but we have to move on. Remember what Shor says? How Time keeps moving on and we just have to go with it?"

Rikke continued to nod, listening intently to Galmar's speech.

"Ulfric was taken, that's happened, there's nothing we can do about that. We didn't see the body, right, only Legate Potema's was found? So he and Makes-Great-Shadows could still be alive, but we shouldn't count on it."

"We can't give up, Galmar!" she said.

"I know, I know, but we shouldn't get our hopes up, and we shouldn't be dwelling on this right now. You said it yourself, we all have more important things to think about. This damn city is about to fall apart, Rikke. We need all the help we can get."

Galmar paused and smiled at Rikke. She smiled back. "Thank you, Galmar," she responded, hugging him warmly.

"Of course. Now, you ready?"

The pain hadn't gone away entirely, but Rikke knew that she had to stop wallowing in her self-pity and take action. No more being passive and letting things happen to her friends. She had never been more ready.

* * *

"We're at the end now," Commander Quintus Tullius proclaimed with a tone of defeat. Emperor Titus simply looked at his cousin with a completely neutral face, unwilling to show weakness to the others around him.

Titus was sitting at the head of the council table in the Imperial Palace. It was almost noon, and Quintus had called an emergency meeting, presumably wishing to discuss critical news. Around the Emperor sat whatever leadership was left in the Empire after three years of mass death: there was Septimus Scipius, elderly Archmage of the Synod; Marcus Vespuccius, lone representative of the Elder Council even though it had been shut down months ago (at this point he simply represented all the nobles of the City); Xerxe A'tora, the gray-haired Hammerfell representative; Esbern Oakheart, director of Blades operations in the area; and Luca Arkator, director of the Penitus Oculatus.

"The Dominion broke through our line at the North Bridge early this morning," Quintus continued in his speech. The bridge was the Imperial City's only lifeline to the rest of the Empire, through which the City could receive desperately needed supplies from Bruma and Skyrim. Now that the Thalmor had defeated the soldiers defending those supply lines, the City was completely cut off.

"What does this mean for us?" asked Xerxe. He's a senile fool to ask for the answer to such an obvious question, Titus thought.

"It means that it's only a matter of time before the elves try to break down the gates of the City….hours even." An uproar arose as Quintus finished his sentence.

"Ridiculous! We've survived for months, you think now they can just knock down our walls so suddenly!" shouted Councilman Marcus.

"Oh please, what do you know about our situation, _Lord Marcus_?" responded Quintus dismissively. "The only reason you're invited here is for courtesy, not because I actually care about your opinion or that of any of you damn cowardly Elder Council fools. Now, the facts are that, all of our ships have been demolished by the Thalmor navy that has been steadily growing as more come down the Rumare River. Our citizens are killed daily by flying stones. Multiple soldiers have been abducted and killed by nighttime espionage. The truth is, Councilman, we have been slowly dying for the past six months."

"Is this the attitude our _Commander_ should have?" said Xerxe. "One of negativity and hopelessness?"

"I'd prefer the term pragmatism, Lord A'tora. I must be honest and realistic with all of you. There is no backup arriving either. Gathering troops from Skyrim would take weeks, and even then it would probably only be a couple thousand at most."

"Very well then," responded Xerxe. "What do we do now? What are our options?"

For the duration of the meeting, Titus had been quiet, listening to the opinions and arguments of everyone else. Now, he felt it was his turn to speak up.

"If I may interject," Titus said, clearing is throat. The whole room turned silent to hear out the Emperor. "There is only one option, is there not? To defend the Imperial City with all of our forces, to make sure the elves have to try their damnedest to break down our walls."

"Of course, Your Majesty," responded Quintus.

"Thank you, Commander. Now then, what in Oblivion are we still doing, still sitting around here for!" Titus stood up from his chair, a stern look of determination on his face giving way to a cheeky smile. "We have a siege to win."

"Yes, Your Majesty!" the council members said in near-synchronous unison.

Of course, Titus knew that he had to have an escape plan. If the Emperor died, chaos was almost certain to follow. He would discuss such plans with Quintus in private, but for now, he had no intention of abandoning the capital to save his own skin.

Titus projected an air of confidence, but in truth, he was terrified. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined himself in this situation, with the entirety of Cyrodiil overrun by a foreign force. He had never dealt with such crushing defeat in his entire lifetime, and neither had his father or his grandfather. Not since the Interregnum, or even the Oblivion Crisis, had the Empire been so close to complete ruin.

Of course, there was also the element of uncertainty. The elves could attack at any time they pleased. Titus was completely at the mercy of the Thalmor. He wondered why they were so determined to destroy everything he ever loved, why they hated men with such vitriol. Did Tiber Septim really abuse them so much that they feel it necessary to annihilate his entire legacy? Considering the long lives of the Altmer, perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise to Titus that they had such long memories. But there had to be some ulterior motive for them to go so far, to be so ruthless and barbaric in their decimation of lives and property. There had to be something he was missing.

Then there was his troublesome son. He had been annoyed at his daughter for pleading so adamantly for Donus to fight in the defense of the City, but Titus knew that Medea was right; a prince must fight with his countrymen, not hide away in some ivory tower. But he couldn't bear the thought of losing him. He remembered his promise to his wife, that he would do everything in his power to take care and protect their son and daughter. Was he failing her by putting Donus right in the thick of battle?

But there was no time to think about that right now. Titus put all of his worries at the back of his head and focused on the task at hand. He had to be a leader, and by Akatosh and the _Nine_ Divines, he would lead.

* * *

It was almost dusk as the sun began to set beneath the horizon. There was a buzz of movement and anxious whispers around the Imperial City. Word had spread that the Dominion was invading tonight or tomorrow, that their ships were set to land on the Isle at any moment now. Nervous soldiers marched around in every direction, ordered around by equally nervous officers. Civilians locked themselves up in their homes, fearing the worst, while the refugees and beggars scurried into the shacks and slums of the Market District and Waterfront. Nobody told them that the docks would most probably be the first places the elves would land if they reached the City.

Rikke could feel her stomach knot up in sheer anxiety. She had fought quite a few battles over the course of the year ( _had it really been a year since she had left Skyrim?)_ , and she could never shake the feeling of nervousness before one. But this one was different. This battle was the final stand, it would determine whether the Empire would live or die. And if she would live or die.

Seated on the side of a bottom bunk in the West Barracks, she was putting her armor on along with her squadmates and those of the 501st. She looked around and saw all the comrades, of all races and genders and ages, that she had fought alongside throughout these grueling months. Galmar was seated on the bed opposite to her, talking to Igmund. She saw the Dark Elf Dres Indoril, seated on a table in the next room, drinking what seemed to be alcohol. And she saw Gaius Tullius standing a few feet away from her. He smiled at her and walk over to the bed.

"Rikke," he said as he sat beside her. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine. I think so, at least," Rikke responded.

"I…heard you weren't doing so well earlier. You've recovered?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright now. I was just thinking about…you know."

"Ah, right, that friend of yours. Ulfric, was it? A damn shame that was. He was a good soldier, and that magic of his was so powerful–"

"Gaius," Rikke interrupted. "I know you didn't like him."

"What? I never said that!"

"Yeah, you never said it, but I could still tell." She said with a side-eye.

"Well…." Gaius thought very carefully for his next words. "I was certainly not close with him, but that doesn't mean I can't respect his skills as a fighter."

"Alright, whatever you say," Rikke conceded, not wanting to antagonize her friend.

"And that Argonian too, he was an amazing swordsmen! Really terrible losses, the both of them. And then they murdered Legate Potema. What those damn knife-ears did to her is unforgivable!"

"Yeah, that was absolutely horrible." Rikke never admitted it, but Potema had been somewhat of an inspiration to her. She had always been under the impression that Imperials kept all of their women as housewives and servants, so seeing such a high-ranking and headstrong Nibenaean legionnaire reassured her that the Legion would be a welcoming profession for her in the future. Maybe she would even be able to become a Legate one day.

Just as Rikke finished her sentence, the door to outside the Barracks opened slowly. A young Imperial dressed in standard leather armor walked through sheepishly, obviously not wanting to attract too much attention.

"Donus?" Rikke said with a look of shock.

"Damn," said Gaius. "Didn't expect to see the Prince himself in here again." He lifted himself up from the bed and began to walk over to him. "Come, Rikke, let's go greet him."

Contrary to Donus's wishes, soldiers began to notice him, whispering that the Prince had arrived. Donus caught sight of his cousin and smiled, relieved to see a familiar face.

"Gaius, thank the gods," he said as they embraced. "I wasn't sure which barracks you'd be in, there are so damn many of them."

"Do you two….know each other?" Rikke asked with a look of confusion.

"Well, my father is the Emperor's cousin," responded Gaius. "So I guess that makes Donus and I second cousins. But honestly, I've always thought of him as my brother."

"Same here," added Donus.

"Wait, so did you know that Donus was hiding in the Legion, the whole time? And you didn't tell anyone? Including me?" Rikke said in a voice half angry and half incredulous.

"Well…yes, essentially," Gaius said with a guilty smile.

"Wow, Gaius, and I thought you were a stickler for the rules!" Rikke said with a laugh.

"Not when he has to protect his dear brother from his father," responded Donus, putting his hand on Gaius's shoulder. Side by side, the two looked awfully similar, with Gaius mainly distinguished by his height.

"Wait, Gaius," Rikke said. "Since you're cousins with the Royal family, does that mean you're in line for the throne?"

"Technically," he responded. "But my father is the son of Emperor Optimus's sister, so our claim is pretty weak. I'm at least….tenth in line? Probably more."

"Better than nothing," she said with a smirk.

A crowd began to form around Donus, with the soldiers seeming to expect the Prince to give some sort of speech. Officer Vittorius, who was seated in the dining room with the other senior Officers, walked up to him and gave him a hearty handshake.

"Prince Donus! What brings you here? Does His Majesty know of this or is this off the books?"

"No, Vittorius," Donus said. "I'm done hiding from my father. I'm here to fight with you all, my brothers and sisters in arms." He was speaking to the crowd now, raising his voice and looking all around himself.

"What's the plan, Prince Donus?" shouted out a legionnaire. "Are we staying and defending or retreating?"

"We have to retreat, there's no other option!" said another soldier. "The elves have us by the fucking throat!"

"That's _High_ elves!" shouted Dres, annoyed with being lumped in with the enemy.

The crowd devolved into a shouting match, some saying that they wanted to stay and fight, and others saying the City was a lost cause and that they would be dying for nothing. Donus looked to Gaius and Vittorius, unsure of what to do. Even he had no idea what the ultimate plan was, since his father was so secretive. He had heard pieces from Uncle Quintus, but nothing of the full strategy.

"Just be honest," Gaius whispered to him. "It's what everyone needs."

Donus nodded. "For now!" He spoke up, projecting his voice across the entire cramped room. "For now, we stay and fight. The Commander predicts that the Dominion will be breaking through the south side of the City first, but they may also do a simultaneous attack on the West and East sides. So, we have to be ready for anything. If the Emperor and everyone up in the White-Gold need to escape, which they'll do by breaking through the elven blockade in the North, it'll be up to us to keep the rest of the Dominion of their backs." Donus paused for a moment, unsure if he should continue. He looked to Gaius for guidance, who silently suggested to say a little more. Donus had always felt some sort of magical, almost telepathic connection to his distant brother. Now it was finally coming in use.

"We owe it to everyone, all your man or mer or beast comrades beside you right now, and all those that you've lost." Donus stared straight at Rikke upon speaking those last words. She knew exactly who he was talking about. "We all on the same page?"

Many of the legionnaires nodded, affirming with "Aye" and "Damn right."

"Alright, everyone, try your hardest to stay up, because it's gonna be a long night. Remember to pray for your strength and for the strength of the City, because the Nine are watching over us." Donus unsheathed his blade and pointed it up into the air. "Long live the Emperor! Long live the Empire!"

"LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR! LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE!" the legionnaires repeated, energized and ready to fight. Rikke had absolutely no idea how the battle would end up. Destiny was in Akatosh's hands; it was up to her to fulfill her role and see the night through.


	15. The Battle of the Imperial City (part 1)

**Sorry about the long delay! I had been quite busy with schoolwork, as well as the writing of my very own fantasy novel! More details to come on that if anyone is interested.**

* * *

 **Chapter 14: The Battle of the Imperial City (Part 1)**

 _12_ _th_ _of Second Seed_

"The elves have broken through!" a terrified legionnaire shouted, bursting through the doors of the West Barracks mere moments after Donus's rousing speech.

"Explain yourself, soldier!" an officer shouted to the pale-faced youth. "What are the details!"

"V-very well, Officer! I was just….I was just stationed at the Waterfront. They've taken it over, the elven ships, they broke through our blockade and just bombarded the whole area. And I also heard, they've broken through the defense on the north side of the Isle! It's only a matter of time before they tear down the gates!" Donus stared at the soldier wide-eyed, in utter shock of the timing. He felt Arkay Himself was mocking them.

"Where!" A cacophony of voices shouted. "Already? Damn them all!"

"Silence, soldiers!" boomed the voice of Vittorius. "Grab your weapons and exit the Barracks as quickly as possible! No time for idle chatter! We must defend the streets, support our folk on the walls!"

"Guess we better get out there then," said Gaius dryly. "Care to join us, fair Prince?"

"Ah, sure thing," he responded, still slightly dazed and anxious from the sudden news. Watching all the legionnaires criss-crossing and squeezing between each other in the cramped barracks, putting on their equipment and weapons, Donus marveled at their speed. The Legion's discipline had certainly made their mark on the formerly rowdy and disorganized draftees.

Rikke swiftly handed him a spear from one of the barrack's numerous weapon racks. His uncle Commander Quintus had already given him a standard short sword and shield, so he took the spear and followed the stream of legionnaires pouring out of the single wooden door.

Once he entered the cobblestone streets of the City, Donus immediately felt disoriented. The night was not quite pitch black yet, but it was certainly dark, and he almost felt like he would be trampled by the mass of soldiers. The Officers were huddled together, presumably discussing what their plan of action would be. If the elves were at the Waterfront and the North bridge, they'd either be defending the North or Southwest gate. Donus suspected the latter, simply based on proximity.

"To the Southwest Gate! To the Southwest Gate!" the Officers shouted after a few moments of deliberation, confirming Donus's suspicions. They pointed their swords south, rushing to the front of the phalanx. In this moment, Donus wasn't sure know exactly how he should be acting. He felt like _he_ should be the one leading the soldiers into battle, yet he knew his rank was just that of a regular legionnaire. The Officers certainly had more experience in leading an army. For now, he followed, prepared to lead when the time came.

The soldiers quickly marched through the streets of the Temple District, slowly forming the disorganized mass into an orderly rectangle. Officers shouted out their squad names as legionnaires formed themselves into about 10 lines, with Donus slotting himself in between Gaius and Rikke. He glanced on both sides of the line, seeing Galmar and Igmund and Dres and many others he had grown to know over his secret year in the Legion.

Donus heard a loud whistling sound and picked his head up, terrified that a catapult projectile was coming right for him. But he saw the projectiles were originating from the center of the City and flying in an arc outside the walls. With the sun having just set under the horizon, the flaming rocks lit up the dimming sky.

"The elves forget we have our own damn catapults!" Galmar smirked from down the line. They flew out in all directions, and some legionnaires cheered as they passed over. After a few minutes, the soldiers passed by the Temple of the One, the massive domed structure dedicated to Akatosh. During the long siege, the Temple had become a kind of makeshift hospital, with priests and mages tending to injured civilians of all classes and races. The original Alessian design had been destroyed during the Oblivion Crisis by Mehrunes Dagon himself during his invasion of the City, but in the temple's ashes rose a massive marble statue of a winged Akatosh, the remnant of Saint Martin's dragon form. In the old Temple's place, the Regent Ocato had decreed the creation of a structure more glorious than any other in Tamriel; to Donus, the architects had certainly fulfilled that promise.

Imperial City residents often jokingly called the Temple the frying pan because of its bird's eye shape, with a long corridor filled with pews leading to the central dome. The grand statue sat in the very middle. The original structure had been a simple dome, without a single bench or chair to sit in; it was a temple used purely for special ceremonies, such as the Emperor's coronation. But once Akatosh made his power known to the world with his mighty defeat of a Daedric Prince, every citizen of the Empire wanted to pray to his glory, so the architects had to modernize the new structure. Massive stained glass windows depicting momentous occasions in Cyrodiil's history lined the corridor and the dome, and looking upon the structure always filled Donus with an immense sense of pride and safety.

As the soldiers rushed by, Donus whispered a small prayer to himself.

"Akatosh guide me."

Projectiles continued to fly out from the Palace District. "Only a matter of time before their own ones start firing," said Rikke. Her words were immediately followed by a loud crashing sound as a massive flaming stone slammed into a house right next to the Temple, crushing the entire building under its weight and almost grazing a few soldiers who rolled out of the way just in time.

"Damn them all!" shouted Gaius in an uncharacteristically enraged tone.

"Keep moving! Keep moving! Rush to the gate!" The Officers shouted. Now, the soldiers could see the elven projectiles in clear view, crashing down at multiple points in the City. Donus glanced and saw the beggars and some rag-wearing refugees huddled in alleyways in terror. Old men and young women and even one babe resting on a girl's shoulder. He wished he could do something, anything to help them, but a part of him already knew that their fates were sealed.

The eighty or so legionnaires ran straight down the wide road from the Temple of the One to the Southwest Gate, where a couple squads were already positioned in front of the large twin doors along with a Breton Legate on horseback. Donus looked up to the City's massive walls, and made out lines of soldiers positioned on the top, firing arrows down below. When they reached the gates, Officer Vittorius shook hands with the Breton and pointed towards the fresh soldiers. Another officer took about two dozen soldiers northward, presumably to defend the North Gate.

"Get in front of the gate, legionnaires!" cried the Legate to the remaining soldiers. "The elves'll break through in moments! Ten lines of twelve soldiers, first lines have your spears straight, back lines ready them to throw!"

Just as she finished her words, three soldiers fell from of the top of the gate, blown off by a Fireblast. Donus glanced at their charred bodies, then looked away in disgust.

The legionnaires lined themselves up in about eight lines, pointing their spears forward towards the gate, with a distance of about twenty feet from the first line. Donus, with him and his comrades in the fourth line, looked back and saw a handful of dark blue-cloaked mages from the Synod standing behind the phalanx, their Fire and Storm spells ready in their hands. Donus was surprised those hooded cowards even had the stomach to fight, considering they had done much of nothing except hide in their guild halls during these past few months.

"Spears forward!" screamed the Breton Legate as the legionnaires readied their battle stances. "Hold steady! Hold steady!"

There was a pound on the wooden gates as Donus felt a tremble through the ground. The gate's iron locks would be no match for a battering ram of such power.

"Keep it together, everyone!" Vittorius said sternly.

Holding his spear in the javelin position, Donus glanced on either side of him, and caught Gaius's eye. They both nodded to each other. In their leather helmets, they looked identical, both brothers-in-arms, prepared to die for each other.

"Akatosh guide you," Donus whispered again, feeling a strong connection to the Lord of Time in this moment. Donus felt His blessing within his body, coursing through his veins and soul.

"Akatosh guide you," Gaius repeated as there was another forceful pound on the door. The planks creaked and buckled as the soldiers on the walls continued to fire arrows down below. Their corpses continued to fall off the ledge, creating a scattering of bodies between the legion phalanx and the gate.

"They'll be coming through–"

The Southwest Gate buckled for the last time as the massive wooden battering ram burst down the double doors, allowing through a horde of bloodthirsty Khajiit warriors. They bounded across the cobblestone and hissed, almost traveling on all fours with their elven swords in hand.

"Fire!" screamed the Legate as the mages and soldiers simultaneously unleashed their barrages, a slew of Fireballs and spears that eviscerated the lightly-armored beasts. Those that avoided the initial continued to run towards the first line of legionnaires, who held their spears tightly and braced for impact. They caught dozens of Khajiit with their tips, but a few were able to jump over and across the mass of spears, pouncing onto legionnaires in the lines right in front of Donus. With some of them not having their swords out yet, a few soldiers were mauled by the Khajiits' sharp jaws and claws. Dres swiftly unsheathed his sword and stabbed a black-haired beast straight through the chest, saving a Nord right in front of him.

"Get up, man!" he said, quickly giving the Nord a hand. His name was Gunnulf, Donus remembered, a big tough guy with a long blond beard.

"Th…thanks," he said meekly. He seemed shocked he had to be saved by a Dark Elf.

The front lines of the phalanx began to break apart as Khajiit continued to pour in through the gates, while Donus and his fourth line unsheathed their weapons to deal with the incoming threats. One Khajiit almost pounced on Galmar, but he cut through the beast's neck with a swift horizontal slice, causing him to lifelessly fall to the ground. The Nord's swordplay had improved greatly over the past year.

"Hold the line!" the Officers repeated desperately as the scene began to devolve into the chaos of war. Donus glanced over the shoulder of the soldier in front of him and saw dozens of bloodied Khajiit bodies piled up in front of the first line. As in every battle, the Khajiit were used as cannon fodder, food to soften up the legionnaires so the true soldiers, the pure-blooded Altmer, could come in for the kill.

Donus now glanced up and saw, almost on cue, a line of elven mages advancing through the broken gates in their black and gold cloaks. They immediately began to fling their spells at the weakened phalanx, battering their shields with unbearably hot Firebolts and Fireballs. The multitude of explosions caused an unbearable din in Donus's ears, almost blasting him off balance and taking down a few of his comrades in agonizing flames. Soldiers in the first line were knocked down and set on fire, becoming easy kills for the remaining Khajiit; now, the phalanx was almost completely spear-less. The Synod mages tried to take down the Altmer ones, but most of their bolts were blocked by their strong shimmering Wards.

The legionnaires were sitting ducks, lacking the ranged capability to deal with the elves' magic. The few remaining soldiers up on the walls continued to fire arrows below in a valiant effort, but they were soon spotted and killed. The original eighty in the phalanx had now been reduced to less than sixty, with many more than sixty Altmer and Khajiit marching through the gate.

"Too many of them!" Vittorius exclaimed from the end of the line. "Move back! Move back!" The soldiers began to shuffle their feet backwards, filling in the lines where their comrades had fallen; Donus and company filled in the third line. Thankfully, the Synod mages were able to hold off the Dominion forces from completely overwhelming the phalanx, thanks to well-timed Fireballs that punched through the Altmer Wards and staved off the Khajiit.

Donus kept his large shield up, even though he knew he wouldn't be blocking much of anything in the second line. He glanced over at Vittorius at the end of the line, who seemed completely zoned out from the battle. Donus thought his Officer was thinking deeply, considering whether to make the decisive choice to stay and fight or make a complete retreat into the City.

As they moved back, a pulsing red sphere of energy crashed into the phalanx, exploding on the front line. Donus was astonished not to see a single scratch on Gunnulf, who had been grazed by the red aura. But as Gunnulf turned towards him, Donus gazed into his eyes and saw that his irises had turned blood-red. Donus felt a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach as he realized what had hit him.

"Fury!" exclaimed Dres. "Fuck, they've got an Illusion mage!"

The red-eyed soldiers, most of the new first and second line, stood still for a moment before violently turning around and bringing their swords onto their comrades. The red eyes even turned on each other, simply attacking the nearest thing closest to them.

"Gunnulf, what–"

Donus was cut off as Gunnulf roared a battlecry, attempting to make a slash right into Donus's shoulder. Donus blocked with his shield and pushed back. The Nord showed no sign of stopping his attack; he was completely under the sway of the terrible spell. Donus saw Gaius and Rikke similarly struggling in holding back their own comrades without outright killing them.

Gunnulf roared again and swiftly tore Donus's shield out of his hands, throwing it onto the ground. He then bared down on Donus's sword with unimaginable rage, as if Donus was his most hated enemy.

"Gunnulf, please, snap out of it!" Donus pleaded as he struggled to keep the sword away from his neck. But the Nord was taller and stronger than him, and the gladius came dangerously close to Donus's neck. Donus knew he could just slip his sword under and stab Gunnulf right through the chest, but he just couldn't do it. He knew that, deep down, that red eyed figure was Gunnulf, struggling to shake off the illusion of fury that had been cast over his eyes.

Just as Donus could hold him off no longer, he saw a sword drive straight through Gunnulf's neck, his eyes instantly losing their red luster as the Nord's body became lifeless. Donus audibly gasped as Dres pulled his own sword out of the bleeding neck, with blood spurting onto the Imperial's own armor.

"Run!" shouted Vittorius, holding off a crazed legionnaire of his own. "Fall back to the Temple!"

"It had to be done! Come on!" Dres exclaimed as he grabbed Donus's arm and pulled him away from Gunnulf's corpse.

"Gods, gods, gods…" was all Donus could say as he turned around and ran along with the broken phalanx down the Temple road.

* * *

Titus nervously paced around his throne room, wondering what terrors the night would bring. It was almost midnight, with dim candlelight glowing over the long empty hall of the throne room. He stopped for a moment and glanced at the Ruby Throne in all of its Ayleid glory. The immaculate marble carvings surrounded the gleaming ruby right above the plush red seat cushion, the symbol of Imperial power since Reman Cyrodiil. He shuddered at the thought of a smug Thalmor sitting there, basking in a conquered Imperial City while his brethren vandalized the Palace. This throne belonged to his father, and his father's father. There was absolutely no way he would give it up. He had to stay, he had to defend it.

Yet he knew that, ultimately, he probably wouldn't have much of a choice in the matter.

"Father!" Medea shouted, breaking Titus out of his thoughts. He had almost forgot that he had even brought his daughter into the room. Four Oculatus guards stood next to the great marble pillars in the hall, with their blood-red tunics and black-grey armor emblazoned with the diamond symbol of the organization. Titus could faintly hear whispers and chatterings going on outside the throne room, in the halls and bedrooms of the Imperial Palace. With the siege growing more and more dangerous, many of the noblemen of the city had decided to move their women and children to the Palace, thinking it would be safer than their homes. And so they slept here, duchesses and ladies and little lords, including Titus's own aunt the Lady Alexia Vici. She was stuck here with her three children, the elder Vittoria and the younger twins Rufus and Caeruleus. Though those boys were technically Titus's cousins, they were more than forty years younger than him at twelve, so he thought of them more as little nephews.

"You wanted to tell me something, remember?" the fiery young princess continued. She was still in her nightgown, and had been abruptly interrupted by her father as she had been talking to Lady Alexia and her children. Medea said she had been trying to calm the kids down. Rufus and Caeruleus never would have admitted it, given their tough guy attitudes, but Medea could see the fear in their faces. She had been comforting all the nobles and their children, in fact, trying to assuage their fears that they would be alright in case of invasion.

Medea did not like to be interrupted while doing such important tasks, least of all by her worrywart of a father. But Titus had do discuss something with her, before the fateful hour which by all predictions the elves would launch a massive invasion.

"Yes, my little queen, I did want to discuss something with you," Titus stopped pacing and walked towards Medea, who was sitting on the carpet-covered steps leading to the throne. He sat down alongside her and touched her face lightly.

"You are a strong young woman, intelligent and well-versed in history and, I hope from the many trips I have taken you on, diplomacy as well. My own sisters and my female cousins, well, I will only say that they did not possess the acumen that you did. When their time came to be married off, they accepted their arranged husbands eagerly and embraced the position of motherhood, of subordination."

"I thank you for the compliments, Father, but how does this connect to me?" Medea asked irritatedly. Her hair was worn down without any ties, going only to her shoulders, and her green eyes glistened in the candlelight. Titus had a feeling she already knew the answer to her question, but he decided to continue with his speech anyway.

"Like this, my sweet: though your are only seventeen, I do believe I already know your true personality. I may have named you a very common name within our family, but you are truly unlike any women I have ever known, with the exception of your mother, of course. I think you would rather not be resigned to the same fate as your aunts."

Medea cocked her head. "Well, I would love children, but…yes, I would rather not be _just_ a mother for my entire life."

Titus brought his daughter in closer now, as if he didn't want the Oculatus guards to hear him. "Medea, your brother...I fear for him. He chose the soldier's life, and it may lead to….his demise."

"Father!" Medea exclaimed with a horrified look on her face. "How could you say something like that!"

"Let me finish. Even if he survives, which I have confidence that the gods will protect him, he has already displayed his utter lack of wanting to succeed me."

"And that's where I come in," she said knowingly.

"That's where you come in. I am not saying you must become Empress. I have not completely given up on Donus just yet. I am only saying that you should consider it a possibility, and that I have blinded myself to this possibility because of my own prejudice. Even if you do not become Empress, you can still attain a high position, such as Chief Minister, perhaps, or Minister of Coin. Again, you have the aptitude for it. You need not be shipped off to some high Count or Jarl."

"Father…." Medea held his hands tightly. She almost looked like she was going to cry. "Thank you for saying this." She hugged him tightly. At least this one time, Titus knew he had said and done the right thing.

They were cut off by a hard knocking of the twin golden doors of the throne room. His worst fears became realized one of the agents let a young servant run up to the Emperor. Titus already had a feeling of what he would say.

"Your Majesty," the youth bowed. Titus recognized him as Jovani, the son of one of his chefs. "I…have some news."

"Say it, boy, do not hold back," Titus responded sternly as he lifted himself up from the steps, immediately putting down the tone of the father and putting on the tone of the Emperor.

"The Aldmeri Dominion has broken through our defenses. The Waterfront and the North Bridge have been taken, and recent word is that the infantry has broken through the Southwest Gate. They rush towards the Inner City as we speak."

Titus was silent for a moment as he glanced around the throneroom, at the stained glass windows and the dragon banners and the pillars. He noticed his Oculatus guards looking straight at him, wondering what he was going to say next.

"Gods," Medea said. "Father, what….what do we do?"

Titus glanced down at his daughter, the younger half of his own blood. "What must be done," he said simply. "We stand, and we fight. Jovani, send word to the Council members. Wake them up at once. We assemble a meeting outside the Palace, near the Royal Guard barracks. There is no time to meet in the council chamber."

"At once, Your Majesty, messengers should be arriving to them as we speak." Jovani said as he bowed out quickly and ran off.

Titus turned to his daughter again as she slowly stood up from the steps. "Medea, it will be your job to handle the nobles within the castle. Keeping doing what you have been doing, calming them and all. But more importantly, you must _lead_ them. You will act as my voice to them."

"I will not let you down, Father," she said with a serious look on her face.

"I know you won't." Titus let himself smile. Medea smiled back. The Emperor motioned to his Oculatus guard, who began to follow him as he exited the throne room alongside his daughter. Once they exited through the doors, Titus continued to walk straight ahead towards the outside of the Palace while Medea turned left up the stairs to where most of the nobles were crowded in the guest bedrooms. Just before they parted, however, Medea turned around with a nervous demeanor. It was quite unlike Medea to ever be nervous, Titus thought.

"Father!" she called out. "What….what if things don't work out. What if…"

Titus put his hand up, stopping her from speaking further. "I _will_ see you again, before the night is over. Win or lose. That is my promise to you. Alright?"

Medea nodded softly. "Alright."

"Julianos guide you," he said to her. Medea had always had a special connection to the god of wisdom and intellect. Fitting for her.

"Talos guide you, Father," she said with a smile as she bounded up the steps, accompanied by one of Titus's Oculatus. As Titus walked along the dark hallway out of the Imperial Palace, he wondered why Medea had chosen to utter the Ninth Divine's name. Titus had no particular connection to Talos at all, and Medea knew that. Titus had always felt more of an affinity to Akatosh, or even Arkay.

Titus realized: it was a message. The elves were fighting to destroy Talos, to destroy everything that Man stood for. It was up to him to fight against that destruction. He only hoped he would live to see the end of this night.

* * *

"Gods," Donus repeated as he peeked behind himself, seeing his red-eyes comrades fighting each other to their last breaths before being cleaned up by the smirking Altmer. He couldn't get Gunnulf out of his head, his lifeless expression when blood came spurting out of his neck. He shuddered as he realized he was still covered in the Nord's blood.

As he, Donus heard the cries of his fellow soldiers being sniped by the Altmer magic. He wanted to turn around, to see if they were still alive and maybe carry them. But he knew it would be utter suicide. He knew he had to run, and he would reach the Temple of the One; in this district all the roads led out from it like a radiant star.

After what felt like an eternity, the elves seemed to fall far behind them as the legionnaires reached the front doors of the Temple. Similarly to the Southwest gate, they were expertly cut wooden double doors, with the ancient black symbol of the Dragonborn painted on a striking red background. They were down to less than fifty now, and Donus noticed that the Breton Legate had disappeared. Perhaps he had more important places to be.

"It's the Legion! Open up!" said Vittorius as he furiously knocked on the door. "The Dominion will be here any minute!"

The left door slowly opened as an elderly bearded Imperial in red robes peered outside.

"Any minute, you said?" he responded in a wispy voice.

"Yes, Father," Vittorius responded hurriedly.

"Then, get in here! Come on, come on!" the priest responded, fully opening the doors and motioning the soldiers to come inside. Rikke and the others poured in, and when she entered she found the Temple was already packed. Civilians of all races and class were stuffed into the space, huddled on the cold marble ground and leaning against the stained glass. Blankets were rolled out on the floor and over the pews, where injured and sick people lay out in pain as priests frantically attended to them. At the end of the hall, at the very center, was the exquisite marble statue of Akatosh, wings outstretched in triumph and neck facing towards the sky. It was immaculately detailed, from the layered scales to the roaring jaws and the flaps of its wings.

This figure was what Donus felt had been calling to him, that was still calling to him. The statue radiated a warm aura, enticing Donus to come nearer. He swore that he could feel the Blessing of Akatosh all throughout his body, from his arms to his toes.

"So many have been coming here for refuge over these past weeks," the elderly priest said to the rattled legionnaires as he motioned towards the civilian masses. "Once the catapult bombings started earlier tonight, even more poured in. Unfortunately, our Temple is not designed to be very accommodating."

"That's quite alright, Father," said Vittorius, who seemed to have taken the leadership role among the five or so remaining Officers. "At least you have saved some of our less fortunate citizens."

"Yes, some of these folk are refugees from outside the wall. The elves are completely merciless, Officer, they're murdering anyone in their way and burning down the whole Isle. As you can see, we've been tending to the injured and sick here, but we only have so many potions and Restoration users. Now, forgive me for asking, Officer, but….are you the highest rank among your group?"

Vittorius glanced around at both sides of him, looking as if the idea that he was the leader finally hit him.

"It would appear so, Father," he responded, running his hand through his long black hair in nervousness. He quickly regained composure, however, continuing. "Our commanding Legate was felled by a Lightning Bolt."

So that's what happened to the Breton, Donus thought to himself.

"That….that is a shame," the priest mumbled, visibly anxious that there were only fifty peons to defend the Temple against the entire Dominion army. "What is the plan, then, Officer? How do we survive an elven attack? All these poor people, what can we do–"

"Father, please, I understand your worry," Vittorius interjected. "But rest assured that these soldiers you see before you are some of the most talented in the Legion." He stared straight at Donus and company while making the last remark.

"At this point, it seems the south half Temple District has been completely taken over." Vittorius continued. He seemed to be looking for the right words to say next.

"Our plan should be to flee to the center, to the Emperor's District," chimed in one of the Synod mages, a High Elf in blue white-striped robes. Everyone in the room seemed to all undergo the collective shock of seeing an Altmer mage on the Empire's side. Donus was shocked they were even still allowed on the battlefield.

"This is where we have been commanded to go if all else fails," the elf continued.

"My good magus," the priest said suspiciously. "You suggest that we must abandon the Temple? Abandon Akatosh?"

"If we are to survive, it is only necessary, Father," the elf said. "Akatosh will understand."

"No, that is madness," said another Officer, a younger Imperial with tanned skin. "We cannot march to the Inner Gates with this many civilians and the entire elven army right on our tails!"

Vittorius paced around. "I agree with you, Lucio, that is not a good idea with this many citizens. From the looks of it, the elves have not reached us yet. They're probably going through each house in the district, scanning them for innocents to kill or loot to steal. They'll let our fear grow and grow until they finally surround us. Luckily for us, their arrogance buys us a precious few minutes. Legionnaires!" he shouted to the remaining soldiers. "Who is the fastest one among you?"

The soldiers looked around, and after a few moments parted ways for a short wiry Bosmer who raised his hand high.

"You there, soldier! What's your name?"

"Amalthus, Officer."

"Father Priest, there is a back entrance to this temple, correct?" Vittorius called out to the priest.

"Ah, yes, good soldier," he confirmed.

"Good. Amalthus, I need you to run out the exit as fast as you can possibly go, to the south gate into the Inner City. Tell the guards there to send a reinforcements to the Temple of the One immediately. Make sure to say the Prince is here." a few soldiers laughed at those last words.

"On it, Officer. I won't let you down," the young Bosmer scampered off as a civilian showed him the way to the exit.

Now, for the rest of you, help out any civilians that need assistance. Quickly now!"

The legionnaires scattered across the Temple's circle, helping the elderly and sick to their feet. The Altmer mage commanded the ten or so mages remaining as they used their Restoration to accelerate the healing of the badly injured. Donus was about to follow Rikke and Igmund before he caught sight of Dres and remembered what had just happened between them.

"Hey, Dres," whispered Donus with an antagonizing tone, pulling the Dark Elf to the side. Dres just turned around, not responding. He knew what the Prince was about to say.

"What in fucking Oblivion was that?" Donus exclaimed. "You killed Gunnulf and you didn't even bat a fucking eye! He's on our side, in case you forgot!"

"It was either you or him, in case _you_ forgot," the Dark Elf responded sharply, pointing his finger into Donus's chest. His red eyes flashed with rage.

"You should have pushed him off then!"

Rikke, Galmar, and Igmund, hearing Donus and Dres's scuffle, turned around with perplexed looks on their face.

"What in fucking Sovngarde are you two shouting about?" Galmar wondered out loud.

"Dear Prince, I don't think you understand how Fury works," Dres continued, ignoring Galmar. "I've dealt with that spell before, it doesn't just cloud their mind, it increases their strength and rage. Pushing off a man of that size was not an option Gunnulf would have been killed by those damn High Elves anyway."

Donus slapped his hand on his chest, covering his palm in sticky blood. "This is _his_ blood, Dres! Do you have any sympathy for human life?!"

"Hey! You two! What in Arkay's name are you doing?!" Vittorius interjected with a rage that neither Donus nor Dres had ever seen from their commanding officer. "The elves will be here in minutes and you are arguing with each other?! My Prince, Dres, I would hope you would have more sense than this."

Donus was still fuming, and almost screamed at Vittorius for talking to royalty in such an impudent tone. But he stopped himself, knowing that the older Imperial was right. He was embarrassed to have attacked Dres so harshly. Donus knew that the Dark Elf was justified, at least pragmatically.

"What is this about?" Vittorius continued.

"Vittorius, please, let me explain," Donus responded calmly. "Back at the gate, when they casted the Fury spell, I was attacked by….one of our own, a Nord I knew well. I was trying to push him off, get away, and Dres….kills him." Dres crossed his arms, eager to hear what Vittorius had to say.

"By Talos," mumbled Galmar.

The Officer sighed before speaking. "My apologies, Prince Donus. Yes, that is not something to take lightly." Vittorius walked up to the young prince and put his arm on his shoulder.

"I know how you're feeling. I know our squad has had its share of tragedy," he glanced around him now, seeing the remaining members of the 501st standing near. "Ulfric. Makes. We've lost a lot of good folks along the way. Donus, Dres was only doing what he thought was right in the moment. He saved your life, didn't he? I know Dres wouldn't be one to admit it, but he cares for you, Prince. We all do, for each and every person. That's what this whole damn Legion's about."

Dres just grunted, continuing to cross his arms as Donus noticed a slight look of embarrassment on his face.

"Are we clear, everyone?" Vittorius continued.

"Of course, Vittorius," Donus spoke up. "I'm…I'm sorry, you're right, I should know better. Let my impulse get the better of me."

"Aye, Officer, apologies," said Dres.

"And anyway, you can debate this all you want once we win this damn battle, alright?" the officer said with a smile. "Now, come on, help the people here and get ready to go out there!"

"Yes, Officer," the squad all repeated. Donus looked to Dres and almost apologized, but Dres put his hand up.

"Save it, Prince. Let's just survive for now."

"Okay, sure," Donus nodded awkwardly.

There was a rush of movement across the Temple floor as the legionnaires and mages organized the civilians, who greatly outnumbered the soldiers. All the while, the Officers were giving orders, with Vittorius being the epicenter of command. More than a dozen legionnaires, including Donus, helped in barricading the main doors, placing down spare chairs and even an entire pew on top of the door lock.

"I can see elves coming down the main road!" shouted the elderly priest suddenly. "They're not running, however, they're….marching?"

"Magus! The High Elf!" Vittorius called out to the leader of the Synod mages, the one who had suggested to flee to the center.

"Yes, Officer?" the elf responded in an almost Imperial accent, surprising Donus. He was young, perhaps not much older than Donus, and unlike many mages, he chose to wear his robes without the hood.

"What's your name, magus?"

"Topal, Officer. I'm watching over this little band of mages we have here. I suppose I would be comparable to an Officer in the Legion."

"Excellent, I'm Vittorius. Topal, I don't mean to sound rude, but can I trust you to kill your own kind?"

The whole room listened in for Topal's response, in both curiosity and intense suspicion. One older refugee even spat on the ground near the High Elf in disgust, calling him a dirty knife-ear, but Topal ignored him.

"'My 'kind,' Vittorius? I've lived in the Imperial City my entire life. My family have been here for generations. Those people outside are _not_ my own kind. _These_ are my people," Topal extended his hands with a vicious flourish, as if he had been anticipating this question for a long time.

Vittorius smiled. "Apologies for even doubting you, Topal. I only asked because I'm going to need your Wards and Destruction to hold off their mages. I know there aren't many of you, but I think you'll be enough to let us slip by the civilians."

"You can absolutely count on us, Officer," the elf responded. Donus already liked him.

"Alright, everyone, we're making a stand here, do or die! We are not letting civilians die on our watch, understand?"

"YES, OFFICER," said a chorus of voices. "Guess this means we're stalling for time," Dres said dryly. Suddenly, Donus heard the shriek of a child. He whipped around and saw one of the temple's immaculate windows shatter under the force of a Fireblast.

It had been a glorious image, of Tiber Septim's coronation with Akatosh looking down at him from above the clouds. The Conqueror had stood face-forward with his iconic winged helmet and his blade in his hands, the White-Gold Tower behind him. It was gone now, reduced to innumerable shards on the hard floor.

"Now's the time for the Wards, Topal!" shouted Vittorius.

"On it," the elf responded.

"Legionnaires!" Vittorius continued. "Those of you with shields, get them up now. Defend the civlians!"

Even more Fireblasts collided into the windows, smashing the mosaics into hundreds of rainbow shards. The civilians shrieked, scurrying away from the now gaping holes in the Temple. The legionnaires took the left side, with those that still had their shields putting them up, while the mages took the right side, absorbing the incoming Lightning Bolts. Khajiit began to climb through the windows, stepping over the shattered glass and hissing fiercely. They weren't able to do much damage, however, with the legionnaires cutting them down as soon as they stepped over. The civilians began to creep into the middle of the temple, underneath the great Akatosh statue. The dome part of the temple was much safer as the windows were higher up, meaning that any bold Thalmor couldn't climb through.

The doors began to buckle as a horrible knocking came from the other side. Donus had a sickening flashback to the skirmish at the Southwest gate, just more than an hour earlier. He was standing close to the door along with his squad and a group of about thirty, standing once again alongside his siblings in arms; Dres at his left, Igmund at his right. He had been handed a shield by the kindly Nord Officer Rikard, so he was prepared to defend the people against the incoming onslaught. He would not fail like he did at the outside gate. They would win here, in the halls of Akatosh. He almost wished the Dragon could come alive again like he did two hundred years ago, and smash the elves and Khajiit to a disgusting pulp.

But Donus remembered, the elves worshipped Akatosh too.

The door burst open, as it had before. The Dominion rushed in, as they had before. The Khajiit and Altmer fell to the spears, as they had before. But the Legion stood and continued to stand, holding their formation, as they had not before.

This time, Donus was on the first line, and saw the wave of Khajiit flowing towards him. He smashed a dark-haired one in the face with his shield and made a quick side-slash to another, slashing into his chest and leaving him reeling on the floor. But they would not stop, the flood of beast-men, and suddenly he heard Igmund cry out as a sword cut into his left shoulder. He was able to finish the Khajiit off, but he was bleeding badly.

"Get behind me!" Donus was able to say, placing himself between the onslaught and his comrade. Now he saw Altmer rushing through the gates, trying to get around the phalanx and surround it. The mages made sure that didn't happen though, with Topal's men flinging their spells towards them, blasting them to the ground as lifeless corpses. The pews even served as a convenient defense, forcing Khajiit to jump over the benches in order to even try to flank them.

But they still came, running and crawling and marching through the doors of this holy hall. A seed of doubt planted itself in Donus's heart as the soldiers began to back up again. He glanced behind him, behind his fellow men, and briefly saw an old woman blasted in the chest by a Fireball, falling before Akatosh's marble statue. He cursed to himself. Maybe his optimism was misplaced, perhaps they would fall here….

Suddenly, Donus could hear a deafening galloping of hooves along the City's cobblestone streets. Then he heard the shrieks of Khajiit and Altmer outside the Temple's shattered windows. Had that Bosmer made it to the gates after all? No matter, he knew he had to take advantage of this momentary lapse in the Dominion army's attention.

"Forward!" Donus roared, surprising even himself by his volume. The phalanx pushed forward into the oncoming Khajiit and Altmer with renewed vigor, effortlessly slicing through the beasts and defenseless mages. Through the open doors of the Temple, Donus could see men on horses crashing into the Dominion lines, slaughtering everyone they could come in contact with. The cavalry, made up of specially trained legionnaires like the Battlemage legions, had been heavily restricted these past few months, with their only use being in defending the supply line to the North bridge. Now, they found their finest hour defending Akatosh's abode.

After a few short moments, the imposing Dominion army had been almost completely eliminated. The legionnaires cheered as a dozen horses galloped into the temple, the steel-plated legionnaires on top of them strutting gallantly. And coming right behind the cavalry, streaking straight to the front of the Temple and stopping below the triumphant Dragon, was Commander Quintus Tullius, mounted on a beautiful white steed and wearing gleaming silver armor. Donus grinned larger than he had done so in weeks.

"The Temple is won!" the Commander cheered with his longsword raised, a uniquely crafted blade with a red ruby in the hilt.

"Obey your Commander!" exclaimed Vittorius.

"Officer Vittorius!" the Commander said atop his steed as Vittorius walked towards him. "Your fast little Bosmer informed me the Prince was holed up in the Temple, and the cavalry came rushing here at once! I am glad I am not too late." He glanced at Donus and Gaius as he spoke with that same sly smile he always used. "Gods, Prince, I don't know what your father would have done if you'd gotten even a scratch on you!" there was a chorus of raucous laughter from legionnaires and civilians alike, even from Donus. At least everyone could share in this one moment of happiness.

"We are as well, Commander!" said Vittorius after a few moments. "But this is not the last of their armies, I fear. We must leave the Temple quickly."

"Yes…" The Commander said with a scowl. "Yes, Officer, you must evacuate these civilians to the City center. We will try to push the Dominion out of this district, but for now, it is not safe here. The Khajiit hadn't even brought in their Senche yet, their monstrous mounts. They're saving them, for what I do not know. Regardless, evacuation is the only option."

There were murmurs and whispers upon the Commander's words, breaking the brief euphoria that had set in after the victory. How could they abandon an entire section of the City? The holiest section of the Empire, no less. Was the battle lost? What was happening in the other areas?

"That is an order, soldiers!" the Commander boomed with a more serious look on his face now. "It's for your own safety, now come on, help these citizens to the Inner gate!"

"Father!" Gaius shouted as the legionnaires helped civilians to their feet and marched out of the Temple doors. Donus was right by his side. "Are you meaning to lead the counterattack?"

"Of course, Gaius!" said the Commander, taking off his helmet to speak to his son. He looked exactly like an older version of Gaius, with the same short hair and darker skin. "I must. It is only my duty."

"Very well..." he said sadly.

"I know what you're thinking, son. That it might be too dangerous. That maybe you want to join too. Well, I'm ordering you to go to the center and defend your Prince!"

"But, Father–"

"No, Gaius, this is _your_ duty," Quintus said sternly. "As a member of the 500th squad. The North section of the City is falling fast. We'll need more men defending the North side of the Inner City. Can I trust you to do this?"

"Y-Yes, Father," Gaius said. Donus worried for his uncle. Was he sending himself into a death trap?

"You were never much of a good rider anyway," Quintus said, smiling as he uttered one of his classic quips.

Gaius smiled slightly, but it was a sad smile. "Talos guide you."

"Yes, Talos guide you, Uncle. Said Donus. Stay safe."

"Of course. Donus. Gaius. Protect each other. Be like the brothers I know you are." With that, he ordered his men out of the Temple. "Cavalry! Move out!" The horses galloped out, leaving the legionnaires in the dust.

Donus wondered how the night would turn out as he marched to the Inner City in the starry night. He could hear screams and clashes of metal in the distance. The North Gate had broken completely. Gunnulf was still dead. The Empire was still on death's door. It was utter agony, to not know if your entire nation would live or die.

Yet somehow, Donus still had a feeling of optimism. Perhaps because of Akatosh, or his uncle, or something else entirely. Whatever it was, he was at least confident that he would survive through the night. Whether the Empire would survive was another matter entirely.


End file.
